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LIBRARY 

UNIVE.xSUf  6"F 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


Rayon  d' Amour. 


POEMS. 


BY 

SALL1E  J.  HANCOCK. 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  MONTANAS. 


"Via  Crucis — via  Lucis" 


'  Long  had  he  been  a  thing  of  common  clay, 

A  being  of  earthly  mould : 
But  lo  I   an  angel  crost  his  path  one  day, 
And  turned  the  clay  to  gold. 

"Silent  was  he!   the  angel  came  again;  — 

And  as  she  passed  along, 
She  kiss'd  his  lips,  all  lovingly  — and  then 
He  opened  them  in  song."  —  Arnold. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   &   CO. 

1869. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


LIPPINCOTT'S  PRESS, 
PHILADA. 


DEDICATION. 

TO  MY  FRIEND,  R.  BELL,  ESQ.,  OF  PORTSMOUTH,  OHIO. 

[Written  during  his  long  and  painful  illness  of  1865.] 

Oh,  why  must  the  good  and  the  pure 
Suffer  ills  which  the  world  cannot  cure  ? 
And  the  spirits  best  fitted  to  shine 
On  earth  with  a  lustre  divine, 

Be  scourged  with  physical  pain, 
And  sorrow  detach  the  rich  vein 
Of  a  life  that  is  richer  to  all; 
Oh,  why  must  this  trial  befall  ? 

While  doing  the  Master's  behest, 
With  faith  that  is  never  at  rest; 
With  energy  scorning  repose, 
At  work  for  thy  friends  and  thy  foes. 

With  feet  never  faltering,  though 
The  journey  is  iveary  we  know, 
To  the  goal  far-lying  and  free, 
And  the  rest  that  remaineth  for  thee. 


iv  DEDICATION. 

The  world  seemeth  sunny  and  wide 
To  many  who  walk  by  thy  side, 
With  hopes  to  ivhich  angels  respond 
'Mid  regions  of  promise  beyond. 

Won  back  by  thy  precepts  again 
From  by-paths  of  prayerless  pain ; 
Many  lives  are  worthier  grown 
In  the  light  thy  goodness  has  shown. 

In  thy  mansion  the  orphan  is  blest ! 
There  the  faint  and  the  weary  find  rest. 
No  suffering  human  can  say, 
He  turned  from  my  pleading  away. 

Or  mortal  can  lift  up  his  face, 
In  God's  light  of  truth,  with  a  trace 
Of  record  'twere  best  to  recall  — 
TJiy  justice  is  meted  to  all! 

Thy  charity,  heavenly  art, 
Dispensed  in  meekness  of  heart : 
Thou  'rt  worthy  to  join  the  bright  band 
Who  walk  on  the  beautiful  strand. 

And,  oh  !  when  life's  conflict  is  done, 
The  goal  of  thy  merit  is  ivon, 
High  hearts  will  bow  over  thy  tomb, 
Rich  blessings  will  follow  thee  home. 

From  earth-ways  of  penitent  strife, 
Through  portals  of  death  unto  life, 


DEDICATION. 

The  meed  of  thy  labor  to  gain, 
A  harvest  of  time's  golden  grain. 

The  spaces  are  narrowing  now, 
Bright  fingers  are  fitting  thy  brow 
To  its  crown  !  —  Salvation  is  free. 
Grace  to  conquer  was  given  to  thee. 

Thy  example  lessons  has  taught, 
Of  duty  —  so  patiently  wrought 
In  faith  and  obedience  to  one 
Who  is  God,  the  Father,  and  Son. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PREFATORY. 

SONNET-ACROSTIC. 

BY   THE    AUTHOR    OF    "  INDA." 

is  the  tenth  muse  in  her  poesy, 
As  proven  by  her  melodies  divine :  — 
Linking  the  beauties  of  the  other  time 
Like  golden  chain  through  her  rich  imagery. 
Inweaving  fact  and  fancy  to  refine  — 
Enforcing  them  to  soothe  and  to  improve  — 

Joined  in  her  language  of  a  heart  of  love ! 

Holding  the  mind  enchanted  in  their  thrall, 
And  wondering  at  the  magic  spell  thus  wove. 
Not  in  the  giddy  throng  of  fashion's  hall 
Cares  she  to  mingle  in  the  worldly  strife 
Of  vain  pre-eminence  :  her  powers  come 
Circling  the  scenes  of  pure  domestic  life  — 
Kindling  affections  in  the  hearts  of  home. 


PAGE 

Two 13 

WRECKS      .        . 20 

HOPE 22 

THE  POET-LOVERS 23 

BE  BRAVE 26 

SOMEBODY'S  DARLING         .....  28 

HEART-CHIMES  IN  HOLLY-TIME     ....  30 

BEFORE  THE  DAWN 82 

OUR  MISSION ,        .  33 

YANCEY  RESTS 36 

AUTUMN  BAIN .  37 

THE  GLORIA  IN  EXCELSIS 39 

THE  CUMBERLAND          ......  44 

HOME 46 

To  MY  FRIEND      ...,,..  48 

WAITING 51 

DIVIDED  52 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 53 

BROWN  EYES 56 

IN  MEMORY  OF 57 

To  A  FEIEND 60 

PROMISE 61 

To  -               62 

SUNRISE 63 

HOPE  IN  DEATH 65 

MY  DREAM 66 

LATONA 70 

BEAUTIFUL  SNOW 72 

ONE  YEAR  AGO     .......  73 

OLD  AND  POOR 75 

SACRIFICE 77 

SPRING 78 

FOUR  YEARS  OF  WAR 80 

IN  THE  SHADOW 82 

EVAN  CASTLE        . 84 

CASTE 86 

ON  A  PORTRAIT 88 

HIDDEN  AWAY 90 

A  PRAYER     .     • 91 

ARION        .                 92 

LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS 94 

NEVERMORE 97 

WILLIE  LEE  .  99 


CONTENTS.  xi 

PAGE 

IN  MEMORIAM 100 

THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILOQUY    . 
FIFTEENTH  KENTUCKY  INFANTRY 

LITTLE  PAUL 

THE  DEAD  LOVE        

DAISY-TIME 

PAST 

PRESENT 

FUTURE      

HILLS  OF  MAYSVILLE 

THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT    .        .        .        .    -     . 

A  SONNET      

MAGGIE  EAYMOND  —  SONNET     .... 
THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY    .... 

To  MRS.  S.  V 

EECOMPENSE 

THE  GAY  PALACE 

THE  LAST  KosE-BuD     .        .        .    -   . 

SOMEWHERE 

GENIUS  .  

To  BELLE  F.  C 

To 

SONNET       

BlNGEN  ON  THE   KHINE  .... 

KINDRED  GRAVES       

REDEEMED  BY  LOVE 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  E.  L.  S 141 

THE  BROWN  HAND        .,„...  142 
JUSTICE  —  A  SONNET         .....      144 

To  MY  FRIEND 145 

NEVER  AGAIN 146 

THE  TABLET 147 

SUMMER  GONE 148 

JOHN  HALIFAX 149 

"My  YEARS  Go  ON"        .        .        .        .        ,      151 

EOSA 153 

"SHADOWED  LIGHT".        .....      154 

AUGUSTINE ,        .  156 

THE  LOVED  AND  LOST       .        ,        .        .  158 

FINALE  ....  .  159 


POEMS 


TWO. 

lives  —  of  soul  and  sense  to  music  set; 
A  song  of  triumph  and  of  fond  regret  : 


"Whose  thoughts  are  in  my  heart  this  summer-day  ; 
Whose  phantoms  e'er  pursue  the  life-long  way. 

That  which  is,  and  that  which  might  have  been  : 
That  which  was,  and  ne'er  can  be  again. 

Two  souls  together  cast  before  the  dawn  ; 
Two  spirits  mingling  in  the  glow  of  morn. 

Two  hearts  —  love-joined  in  the  first  flash  of  light; 
Two  hands  upraised  to  heav'n  in  human  sight. 

Two  lives  in  wedlock  clasped  so  fond  and  true, 
Began  the  journey  when  the  day  was  new. 

2  13 


14  TWO. 

Two  living  souls  within  the  mortal  clay; 
Two  spirits,  young  and  happy,  bright  and  gay. 

Anon  were  joys  more  sweet  and  precious  given, 
And  baby-feet  came  down  the  stairs  of  heav'n. 

And  earth  was  very  glad,  and  we  were  blest; 
Two  lives  unmindful,  and  two  souls  at  rest. 

Two  hearts  forgetful  of  the  Giver's  praise, 
His  wrath  descended  swift  upon  our  ways. 

Two  lives  from  ours  were  taken  back  to  God; 
Two  little  forms  were  bedded  in  the  sod. 

Two  little  graves  near  the  old  home  were  made, 
In  winter  white  —  gr,een  in  the  summer-shade. 

Consigned  our  idols  were  to  earthly  mould, 
The  Saviour's  lambs  were  taken  to  his  fold. 

Bright  waves  yet  sported  with  the  lapwing's  crest ; 
Swift  summers  glided  outward  to  the  west. 

Two  lips  said  sneeringly —  "  My  joy  is  o'er!" 
Two  eyes  were  bent  toward  the  distant  shore ;  — 

Toward  a  fairer  idol  'yond  the  deep, 

Two  waiting  eyes  were  rarely  closed  in  sleep. 

Two  lips  that  careless  said,  "  Your  love  is  vain," 
A  heart  that  coldly  thought  upon  my  pain. 


TWO.  15 

There  came  no  answer  to  my  pleading  prayer, 
No  look  or  tone  to  comfort  my  despair. 

No  answer,  though  from  spring  to  spring  again, 
Seasons  tracked  the  snowy-crested  main. 

Now  stand  we  each  on  ocean-severed  strands ; 
Between  us  countless  waves  and  falling  sands. 

No  more  to  meet  upon  the  earth  —  no  more. 
The  morning  has  gone  by  —  the  summer's  o'er. 

My  way  has  been  so  dark  and  drear  along 
The  olden  paths  and  early  flowers  among. 

Life  holds  so  little  worth  our  toil  save  woe, 
That  cuts  the  soul  from  all  the  faith  we  know. 

Anon  we  come  to  do  without  its  hopes, 

And  shape  our  course  toward  its  peaceful  slopes. 

How  have  I  supplicated  strength  from  God, 
Who  smote  my  heart  to  atoms  with  his  rod. 

And  he  has  shown  to  me  my  empty  life, 
Divested  of  its  pangs  and  human  strife ; 

Has  sent  for  answer  to  my  earnest  prayer, 
Those  who  would  win  a  crown,  a  cross  must  bear. 

Ere  long  the  night  wore  slowly  toward  the  day, 
In  which  he  took  my  feet  from  out  the  clay, 


16  TWO. 

And  planted  them  upon  the  higher  ground, 
Where  I  beheld,  in  calmly  looking  round, 

The  plan  and  purpose  of  my  trial :  saw 

The  greater  good  his  love  had  wrought ;  for,  ah  ! 

His  eyes  had  not  looked  coldly  on  my  pain, 
Nor  was  my  cry  of  mortal  anguish  vain. 

For  he  has  blest  me  more  than  I  can  tell ; 
Before  my  eager  eyes  a  vision  fell. 

I  saw  my  destiny  by  his  hand  wrought ; 
The  discipline  was  wise,  thus  sorely  taught. 

A  thousand  aspirations  then  were  born, 
And  glided  o'er  the  purple  hills  of  morn. 

Oh  !  in  that  darkest  hour  my  spirit  caught 
Power  to  touch  the  springs  of  human  thought. 

I  clearly  saw  two  lives,  the  false  and  true, 
The  paltry  pride  whereon  my  pleasures  grew; 

The  spirit-needs  that  hitherto  had  slept, 
And  long  had  slumbered,  had  I  never  wept. 

The  false  lights  go  out  in  reason's  dawn, 

Jn  whose  clear  beams  no  meager  schemes  are  born. 

No  empty  forms  of  sense  can  triumph  o'er 
The  pure  bright  shapes  we  worship  evermore ; 


TWO.  17 

Or  gain  the  promise  which  the  future  brings, 
To  all  who  labor  for  the  higher  things;  — 

To  which  his  love  would  wed  us,  if  we  knew 
How  to  receive  them,  and  were  faithful  too. 

His  forms  of  truth  stand  ever  clear  and  bright ; 
All  that  is  false  will  crumble  in  the  sight 

Of  the  fairer  vision  his  mercy  shows  — 
That  of  a  spirit  purged  by  human  throes. 

My  hands,  O  Lord,  are  ready  for  thy  task  ; 
To  serve  thee  now,  I  humbly  only  ask. 

Thine  own  for  me  hast  swept  a  magic  string, 
And  taught  my  wayward  lips  the  way  to  sing  ; 

Hast  opened  in  my  heart  a  crystal  fount, 
And  taught  the  sprite  of  poesy  to  mount, 

On  airy  pinions  from  life's  deserts  drear, 

To  where  the  sunshine  is  so  bright  and  clear ; 

Hast  filled  my  desolation  with  the  things 
Ne'er  purchased  by  the  gold  or  blood  of  kings; 

Set  sweet  eternal  music  in  my  soul, 
Whose  sounding  echoes  ever  round  me  roll. 

The  gift  vouchsafed  to  me  of  human  speech! 
Shall  I  employ  it  so  my  words  will  reach  — 
2*  B 


18  TWO. 

Through  the  to-come  —  adown  time's  mazy  line, 
Eevealing  unto  some  a  hidden  shrine ; 

Discovering  to  blinded  heart  and  eyes  — 
A  lighthouse  in  the  mind,  that  will  uprise, 

And  shine  upon  the  ruins  of  life's  plain, 
To  guide  the  wanderer  back  to  thee  again. 

Oh !  if  one  pilgi-im  shall  find  quiet  rest, 
Along  the  beaten  way  my  feet  have  prest ; 

If  one  draught  from  this  fountain  pure  and  clear 
Has  quenched  a  thirstful  longing  vain  and  drear ; 

That  my  poor  hand  has  lifted  to  the  lips, 
So  pallid  in  their  blighted  hope's  eclipse; 

If  I  have  shown  to  one  the  hidden  gleam, 
Lost  in  the  mazes  of  some  fond,  vain  dream ; 

If  I,  one  chord  have  swept,  of  deep,  pure  joy, 
Of  friendship  constant,  love  without  alloy, 

The  mighty  deathless  love,  whose  firm  strong  arm 
Can  lull  a  restless  spirit  with  its  charm, 

Can  shelter  all  who  come  within  its  reach  :  — 
Be  this  my  recompense  —  the  gift  of  speech. 

Thrice  blest  my  work,  in  making  others  blest, 
In  doing  which  my  soul  has  found  sweet  rest. 


TWO.  19 

My  mission  has  not  been  in  vain!  —  anon, 
Perchance,  some  spirit,  loved  in  years  bygone, 

Will  read  what  I  have  written — and  at  last, 
With  heart  true  throbbing  to  the  buried  past, 

Say  then  —  "  I  never  knew  her,  even  when 
I  claimed  her.     Oh !  were  she  mine  again, 

I  would  hold  her  more  worthy  of  the  love, 
Which  lonely  trial-years  do  not  disprove, 

Or  rifle  of  its  truth  :  that  which  to  gain, 
Has  shown  to  me  my  sacrifice  was  vain." 

'Twas  very  hard  without  his  love  to  live; 
'Tis  easy  now  to  tell  him,  I  forgive. 

These  words  the  years  have  taught  me  how  to  speak  : 
They  have  not  bowed  me  down,  or  paled  my  cheek, 

Or  quenched  the  latent  fire  within  mine  eyes, 
Upraised  in  faith  unto  God's  morning  skies. 

I  see  new  glory  in  the  forms  they  wear, 
Of  patient  duty,  and  the  fruits  they  bear. 

I,  too,  shall  cross  an  ocean  dark  and  wide, 
Bright  spirits  beckon  from  the  farther  side ; 

E'er  fond  and  true,  they  wait  me  where  I  go, 
The  journey  ended,  and  my  task  below, 


20  WRECKS. 

And  all  that  might  have  been — perhaps  may  be  — 
My  faith  has  crossed  before  life's  twilight  sea. 

I  '11  to  these  broken  hopes,  yon  portal  crost, 
Exclaim,  "Poor  dreams,  not  worth  the  tears  you  cost.'' 

The  tribute  of  each  thought  I  bear  to  thee, 
Who  broke  the  bonds  and  set  my  spirit  free. 

My  sweetest  songs  are  those  which  hymn  thy  praise, 
Thou  God,  our  great  Eedeemer,  all  my  days. 

The  truest  life  was  that  which  humbly  grew, 
Flowers  of  toil  and  trust  the  life-way  through, 

Whose  privilege  and  seed-time  are  to-day, 
Whose  harvest-season  is — eternity. 


WEECKS. 

ANY  shattered  wrecks  strew  God's  creation  ! 
Dun  deserts  creep  where  flowers  were  wont 

to  grow; 

And  lie  along  the  beaten  shores  of  nations  — 
A  never-ending  record  of  unworded  woe, 
While  time's  great  ages  course  their  varying  flow. 


WRECKS.  21 

Down  where  the  coral  glories  flash  and  quiver, 
'Mid  chill  expanses  of  the  murmuring  deep; 

And  where  bright  broken  sunbeams  pale  and  shiver 
On  the  cold  tract,  where  gathered  twilights  weep, 
A  million  wrecks  lie  wrapt  in  dreamless  sleep. 

And  there  are  human  wrecks  deep  in  our  feeling ! 
We  only  'mid  desolation  heard  their  sigh, 

And  kissed  the  lips  white,  with  their  last  appealing, 
Ere  fate  had  stilled  at  length  the  wailing  cry, 
Touchingly  plaintive  as  a  "prayer  gone  by." 

In  our  hearts  where  those  poor  wrecks  are  sleeping, 
Comes  no  moon  or  star-beam  to  the  waveless  main ; 

No  morning  with  its  trailing  glories  keeping 
Sweet  watch  above  our  spirit's  silent  pain, 
And  sorrow  for  the  trust  we  ne'er  can  know  again. 

And  yet,  O  Father !  thy  great  heart  is  bowing 
Now  with  the  weight  of  every  human  woe. 

Though  fire,  and  wreck,  and  pain,  and  wrong  allowing, 
Through  these  brief  days  of  mortal  time,  we  know 
Thou  art  the  Lord !  Thine  ages  come  and  go. 

Worthless  idols  to  which  our  souls  are  clinging 
Now  flash  bright  radiance,  then  go  out  apace. 

Ah !  list  above  the  wrecks ;  hear  voices  singing, 
"This  is  not  all  of  life  —  the  world-bound  race, 
Whose  mazy  paths  through  sin  and  fire  we  trace. 

"Anon  will  all  the  flameful  wrath  abating, 
Eeveal  the  glory  of  a  happier  day; 


22  HOPE. 

From  deserts  dun  with  care  and  gloomy  waiting, 
We  will  return  some  morning,  nevermore  to  stray 
From  the  quiet  sunshine  of  a  better  way. 

"  We  lose  not  all  in  parting  from  earth's  treasure, 
With  tearful  agony,  and  groan,  and  cry  ; 

There  is  a  sweet  love-life  of  boundless  measure, 
An  inner  temple  radiant,  looming  high ; 

'A  house  not  made  with  hands'  beyond  the  sky. 

"  There  is  a  world  with  vales  of  light  outshining 
The  brightest  Edens  which  we  seek  in  this ; 

Where  hearts  nor  lives  hold  wrecks  nor  useless  pining, 
Nor  lips  long  vaguely  for  a  vanished  kiss, 
Nor  storms,  nor  fire  sweep  o'er  that  land  of  bliss." 


HOPE. 

^WEET  hope !  most  precious  boon  to  mortals 

given, 
Thou   golden  link  between  the   earth   and 

heaven ; 

Thou  beacon  in  the  port  of  ocean  wide, 
Thou  lighthouse  gleaming  on  the  farther  side ; 
Thou  landmark  on  the  rugged  way  below, 
Thou  sister  twin  of  all  the  joy  we  know. 

Thou  spring  of  youth  to  mortals  gray  and  old, 
Thou  summer  to  our  winters  bleak  and  cold  ; 


THE  POET  LOVERS.  23 

Thou  meteor,  meet  to  light  the  twilight  gray, 
Thou  radiant  star  upon  a  darksome  way  ; 
Thou  sun  of  all  the  universal  light ! 
Thou  morning  breaking  on  the  shores  of  night; 
Thou  promise  in  affliction  — joy  in  health, 
Our  present  treasure,  and  our  future  wealth. 
Thou  pure  white  bud  of  paradisal  bloom, 
Thou  rainbow-span  above  our  mortal  tomb; 
Heart,  soul,  and  mind  do  unto  thee  respond, 
Thou  glory  of  the  world,  and  heaven  beyond ! 


THE  POET  LOVERS. 

"  One  life,  one  love,  one  death,  one  immortality."  —  SHELLEY. 

.REAMS,  "  languor-steeped  in  gold,". 
And  "  tranced  in  summer-calm," 
Gleam,  aureola-like,  and  odor-filled, 
Upon  a  wide,  wild  waste  of  memory. 
Like  palms  of  air  on  sand,  robins  hold 
Their  matinee  within  the  tufted  wold  — 
Fragrant  with  perfumes  and  wild-lotus  blooms  — 
As  when  the  poet  first  his  story  told, 
With  truth  that  pierced  of  truth  the  living  soul. 

They  lived  an  age  of  glory  in  their  pride ! 
They  loved  each  other  more  than  worlds  beside  — 
More  than  the  pageantry  that  waits  on  fame; 
More  than  the  glitter  of  a  splendid  name ; 


24  THE  POET  LOVERS. 

More  than  the  luminance  of  brain-bought  gold ; 
More  than  e'er  words  of  inspiration  told. 
Yet  love  to  them  was  shadowed  as  the  day, 
Mist-touched,  and  prematurely  old, 
And  gray  amid  life's  gathering  glooms, 
With  the  fell  pallor  of  earth's  poet-tombs. 

The  harvest-moon  was  new ; 

A  sickle  hanging  high, 
A  horn  of  amber  blazing  on  the  sky, 
"While  "  heaven  flowed  in  through  many  dreams :  " 

The  twilight  softer  grew  — 

One  star  flashed  out  anigh  ; 
Coquettish  smiles  on  night,  as  if  to  woo, 
With  all  the  timid  splendor  of  her  beams, 
Those  loyal  hearts  aloft  while  pulsing  true, 
They  clasped  eternity  in  one  last  hour  — 
All  the  bliss  and  madness  of  love's  power 
O'er  time.     The  moments  full-blazoned  grew  — 
As  glory-hallowed  they  flitted  by. 

A  barren  reach  of  world 

Around,  and  death  between !     From  moon  to  moon 
Earth's  flame-tipped  banners  wave  unfurled 
Like  thoughts  with  fire  agleam. 
Too  soon  fulfilled  the  heaven-born  dream, 
When  fate  her  burning  falchion  hurled 
Adown  the  grooves  of  doom.     Too  soon 

A  godly  heart  was  stilled  ! 

Mists  fleck  th'  empurpled  hills, 

And  bright-winged  oriole  trills 


THE  POET  LOVERS.  25 

His  summer  chant  unheard.     The  moon, 

As  then,  with  splendor  lights  the  sleeping  world ! 

Again  for  him  the  golden  star  shall  beam 

In  heaven's  dimless  noon. 

For  her?     Death  over  all 
Cast  the  fell  shadow  of  his  darksome  pall. 

Slowly  the  cycle  paled  — 

The  golden  star  was  veiled  ! 
No  more  at  evening  did  her  heart  rejoice, 
No  more  in  song  was  heard  her  clarion  voice. 
Grim  silence  shut  the  music  in ; 
A  wall  of  blackness  hid  the  silver  fall 
Of  light.     Her  life 's  one  melody  — 
The  airy  palm  —  the  swallows  flitting  by  — 
Henceforth,  were  as  they  had  not  been 

Froze  was  the  vein  of  inspiration  in  her  soul, 
Though  she  toiled  bravely  for  the  nearing  goal. 
Weary,  alas !  and  yet  not  where  to  rest. 
Cold  was  the  pillow  once  her  head  had  pressed. 
Through  the  leal  heart  her  priceless  love  had  blessed, 
Eank  grasses  grew  above  the  poet's  breast. 

"While  waiting  for  the  end,  her  calm  look  said, — 
"A  thousand  lives  are  nothing  —  he  is  dead!" 
Faith  wrote  on  her  pale  brow  these  words, —  "  I  know 
My  love  —  God  gives  him  back  to  me  —  I  go." 
Then,  she  too  slept  I  and  blent  in  one  glad  flow 
Their  loves  and  songs.     The  broken  lyres  below. 
3 


26  BE  BRAVE. 


BE   BKAVE. 

§'~ 
H!  coward  soul,  why  fear  betray? 
With  heart  to  love  and  lip  to  pray, 
Thou  shouldst  not  shrink  or  turn  away 
God  holds  the  issue  fast. 
Still,  then,  thy  wild,  rebellious  cry; 
With  unblanched  face  and  tearless  eye 
Resolve,  whatever  comes,  to  try 
And  win  the  crown  at  last. 

Oh  !  craven  spirit,  dost  thou  esteem 
Far  brighter  than  a  heavenly  gleam, 
One  glance  of  eyes  whose  splendors  beam 

With  a  transcendent  love?  . 
And  is  the  clasp  of  one  dear  hand 
More  to  thy  heart  than  the  bright  band 
Who  at  the  gates  of  glory  stand 

To  welcome  thee  above  ? 

More  than  white  robe  or  shining  crown, 
Or  tuneful  chorus  pealing  down 
The  ages,  with  their  mellow  brown 

Of  harvest  waving  free ; 
Than  walking  through  the  golden  street, 
Where  all  the  saints  and  angels  meet ! 
Is  this  companionship  more  sweet 

Than  such  could  ever  be  ? 


BE  BRAVE.  27 

To  feel  that  heaven  is  here,  and  now, 
And  come  to  give  it  up,  and  bow 
In  dust  a  pallid,  crownless  brow. 

"Yet,  Father,  it  shall  be! 
Though  heart  should  break,  and  weary  cry 
Should  rend  my  soul,  yet  will  I  try 
To  drink  —  the  cup  may  not  pass  by:  — 

Be  merciful  to  me." 

"What  though  temptation  gird  about, 
My  trustful  life  with  clinging  doubt, 
And  the  alluring  bliss  without 

The  sacrificial  pale : 
And  sweet  lips  wooing  bid  me  come; 
And  fond  heart  tells  of  other  home ; 
And  love  which  underneath  the  dome 

Of  heaven  shall  never  fail. 

The  heights  of  truth  I  must  attain, 
And  stand  above  the  clinging  stain 
Of  time.  E'en  though  the  dream  was  vain  — 

'T  was  pure  and  very  sweet. 
The  love  was  holy  in  thy  sight, 
A  spirit  of  celestial  might, 
A  presence  radiantly  bright  — 

For  heaven  truly  meet. 

Yet  God's  was  greater !  and  how  vain 
Is  human  worship  while  the  stain 
Of  earthiness,  decay,  and  pain, 
Eests  on  the  life  we  hold ; 


28  "SOMEBODY'S   DARLING." 

And  all  its  rare  bright  shapes  and  fair, 
Must  wither  in  the  charnel  air, 
On  low  still  dreamless  pillows  where 
They  slumber  'neath  the  mould. 

"Where  love  and  hate,  with  sigh  and  tear, 
And  craven-hearted  coward  fear, 
Are  hidden  with  the  darkness  drear, 

Away  from  human  sight. 
E'en  though  a  silent  feast  is  spread, 
In  memory  of  the  loved  and  dead, 
The  narrow  house  and  coffin-bed : 

Behold!  the  promise  bright  — 

Breaks  over  all  life's  brooding  years ; 

The  Christian's  trials,  and  his  tears  : 

The  Christian's  hopes,  the  Christian's  fears. 

The  pitying  Saviour-friend, 
Who  lit  with  stars  the  twilight  gray, 
Who  took  from  death  the  sting  away, 
Will  give  us  heart  and  lip  to  pray, 

"  God  sanctify  the  end." 


«  SOMEBODY'S  DAKLING." 

VEK  the  mountain,  and  over  the  river, 
Where  spaces  are  merged  in  morning's  bright 

blue; 

Down  where  the  cuckoo  birds  beckon  and  quiver; 
Somebody's  darling  is  waiting  for  you. 


"SOMEBODY'S  DARLING."  29 

Somebody's  pet  in  the  noon  and  the  night, 
.Raises  a  face  all  glowing  and  bright; 
Somebody's  hands  are  outstretched  to  greet. 
Hear  you  the  patter  of  somebody's  feet  ? 
Over  the  garden-way,  down  by  the  tombs, 
Where  the  tall   stones   glisten   white   through   the 

glooms ! 

Somebody's  loved  one  goes  to  the  gate ; 
Somebody  whispers  your  name  while  we  wait. 
Somebody  says  at  the  close  of  each  day, — 
"  Oh !  could  he  know  how  for  his  coming  we  pray." 

All  through  the  long  summer  you've  linger'd  afar ! 
Now  at  the  rising  of  yonder  bright  star, 
Somebody  despairs — and  the  moon  seems  to  say, 
As  she  bends  her  fair  brow  to  the  star,  "  let  us  pray." 
All  trembling  the  star  gives  for  answer  —  "  I  '11  sing, 
That  the  light  of  our  morrow  the  absent  may  bring." 

Over  the  mountain,  and  over  the  river, 
Up  to  the  throne  of  the  gracious  All-giver  ! 
On  the  bright  wings  of  a  spirit  most  true, 
Borne  through  the  arcades  of  heaven  for  you. 
That  song  and  petition  the  world  may  not  hear, 
Is  caught  by  the  grace  of  the  father's  quick  ear, 
And  soon  will  be  answered.     Faith  says,  await 
Still  the  unwinding  this  coil  of  our  fate. 
In  the  here,  or  hereafter,  ever  be  true, 
Somebody's  darling  lives  only  for  you. 
Somebody's  loved  one  will  clasp,  as  before, 
Your  hand  in  the  now,  or  the  great  evermore. 
3* 


30         HEART-CHIMES  IN  HOLLY-TIME. 

"It  shall  be  in  the  now,"  —  a  quick  voice  replies; 

Somebody's  darling  is  sweetly  surprised; 

Somebody's  lips  to  be  pressed  are  full  fain  ; 

Somebody's  guest  will  not  leave  us  again. 

For  heart,  soul,  and  brain  are  too  weary  to  roam, 

If  they  only  find  rest  in  somebody's  home, 

Peace  in  the  shelter  of  somebody's  love, 

And  the  path  leading  up  to  the  mansion  above. 


HEART-CHIMES  IN  HOLLY-TIME. 

.E  are  waiting,  brother,  patiently  awaiting! 
To  feel  thy  fond,  fond,  kiss  upon  our  cheek;  — 
And  words  of  welcome  breathe,  we  fain  would 

speak 

To  thee  who  hast  grim  tides  of  battle  — 
Breasted  bravely  since  our  last-time  greeting. 
We  are  waiting,  patiently  awaiting. 

We  are  waiting,  brother,  hopefully  awaiting! 
Within  our  dear  old  home  the  childhood-light  — 
Is  burning  cheerily  for  thee  to-night. 
Seasons  weary  since  our  New-Year  parting, 
Changes  many  since  our  last  fond  greeting. 
We  are  waiting,  hopefully  awaiting. 

We  are  waiting,  brother,  anxiously  awaiting  ! 
Ever  through  the  long,  long  night  we're  pining. 
Thou  com'st  not  while  sweet  stars  are  shining, 


HEART-CHIMES  IN  HOLLY- TIME.         31 

Nor  yet  at  morning  in  the  glory-light, 
And  when  the  sunshine  and  the  day  are  waning, 
We  are  waiting,  anxiously  awaiting. 

We  are  waiting,  brother,  tearfully  awaiting ! 
White  as  snow  our  mother's  cheek  is  paling, 
While  listening  to  the  chill  winds  wailing  — 
Blighting  holly-wreaths,  heart-lights  burn  faintly  j 
Chill  night-dews  fall,  sweet  hope  is  dying. 
We  are  waiting,  tearfully  awaiting. 

We  are  waiting,  brother,  hopelessly  awaiting! 
Only  a  letter  came  with  words  of  yearning; 
"Be  patient,  mother  dear,  I  am  not  coming; 
No  leave  of  absence  yet  —  no  home  returning  — 
For  me  no  Christmas  chimes,  no  hearth-light  burning. 
Ever  waiting,  hopelessly  awaiting." 

Hark  !  hear  the  watch-dog  bark !  we  are  not  waiting. 
We  hear  a  manly  voice  so  soft  and  tender, 
We  raise  our  own  to  meet  thy  dark  eyes'  splendor; 
Soul-music  swells  —  merry  chimes  are  pealing; 
Lights  are  brighter,  and  the  hearth-stone  glowing. 
Thank  God !  we  are  not  waiting,  vainly  waiting. 


32  BEFORE  THE  DAWN. 


BEFOEE  THE  DAWN. 

^EAR  motner,  the  shadows  are  long, 
On  the  plains  of  the  slumberous  world ; 
The  brooks  lie  asleep  in  the  arras  of  the  night, 
The  broad-breasted  river  rests  peaceful  and  white, 
On  a  cradle  of  infinite  calm,  — and  the  wind, 
Like  the  nightingale,  sings  a  wild  song. 

Sweet  mother,  love's  tribute  I  bring  ; 
Though  a  silence  broods  dumb  in  my  heart. 
Whose   brooks   once  were   gleesome,  whose   oceans 

aheave, 

Whose  tides  of  emotion,  1  surely  believe, 
Are  now  sweeping  on  to  the  shore,  where  we  grieve 

Never  more  while  the  orioles  sing. 

For  souls  in  the  shadow  of  night 
Cannot  stay  from  their  home  in  the  sky, 
Where  a  twilight  e'er  closes  our  sunniest  day; 
And  where  'mid  the  blight  and  the  gloom  of  the  way, 
We  build  our  bright  fanes  of  the  veriest  clay, 

And  cover  their  shrines  from  our  sight. 

Dear  mother,  the  night  may  reach  on  ! 
For  the  life-time  is  only  begun  : 
Yet  the  infinite  love  that  is  ours  in  the  dark  — 
Of  our  way  through  the  world  is  the  heavenly  arc 
That  will  bear  o'er  the  waters  our  wandering  bark 

As  it  nears  the  white  shores  of  the  dawn. 


OUR  MISSION.  33 

Till  down  through  the  ages  will  stream, 
The  glories  we  dream  of  afar : 
Where  the  mountains  of  promise  reach  higher  and 

higher, 

'Yond  the  "pillar  of  cloud  and  the  pillar  of  fire;" 
And  the  opaline  gleam  of  a  heavenly  spire 

Eises  clear  in  eternity's  beam. 


OUE  MISSION. 

A   METRICAL   ESSAY. 

who  were  born  upon  the  earth, 
Dime's  servitors — heirs  of  immortal  birth, 
Since  first  the  heritors  of  Eden  prest 
Its  scented  turf,  have  here  a  mission  blest 
By  the  Creator's  sanction. 

This  day  of  earth  is  only  lent, 
Till  we  have  wrought  his  purpose; — being  sent 
To  live — perform,  to  suffer  and  repent, 
And  come  to  him  at  last  with  our  account 
Well  balanced  !     Strike  off*  mortal  fetters — mount 

Time's  heights  to  hear  the  sweet  "  "Well  done." 

Hence,  patient  and  faithful  ever, 
Thou  humble  worker  at  some  home  fireside; 
Thy  lowly  lot  and  destiny  abide. 
There  thou  may'st  learn  a  secret  better  worth  — 
3  o 


34  OUR  MISSION. 

Than  gold  of  kings — the  marvel  of  thy  birth. 
God  holds  of  life  thy  simple  plan. 

Pale  wanderer  in  distant  climes, 
Why  seekest  thou  to  murder  years  he  gave? 
Hopeless  and  aimless  thy  journey  to  the  grave. 
And  are  his  gifts  to  thee  so  little  worth, 
That  thou  shouldst  find  no  pleasure  on  the  earth, 

No  work  in  all  the  busy  land  ? 

All  human  things  are  strangely  changed, 
Since  the  first  fires  were  kindled  great  and  high 
Upon  the  sunset-shrines  of  Eden.     "Why 
Are  there  few  sages  in  the  nowadays, 
To  concentrate  of  wisdom  her  pure  rays 

For  those  who  only  sit  and  wait  ? 

Why  must  a  man  win  all  the  world,  — 
Serve  fame,  ambition,  fortune,  caprice,  all, 
Before  he  cares  to  speak  for  God,  or  call 
Upon  his  Master's  name  with  sanctity,  — 
Till  he,  poor  worm,  shall  come  at  last  to  see, 

His  wasted  opportunity? 

Oh  !  patient  teacher,  kind  and  true, 
For  this  hast  thou  set  humble  workers  here, 
Who  serve  thee  earnestly  without  the  fear 
Of  losing  what  such  paltry  souls  may  win,  — 
The  gilded  homage  of  this  age  of  sin. 

Strive  they  for  higher,  better  things  ? 


OUR  MISSION.  35 

In  the  still  vineyards  of  the  Lord, 
Many  are  set  to  work,  and  some  to  teach 
The  humble  few  whom  wisdom  may  not  reach. 
Oh!  least  of  all  his  people,  be  ye  wise ! 
From  simplest  deeds  may  influences  rise, 

That  dwell  in  hearts  for  evermore. 

And  thus  it  strangely  came  to  pass, 
That  simple  lips  were  taught  to  utter  truths 
That  are  enduring- — messages  of  ruth 
Have  flowed  through  channels  unforetold 
By  priest  or  prophet  in  the  days  of  old. 

Hail !  women  of  the  latter  day  — 

"Whose  lips  teach  us  to  preach  and  pray ; 
Whose  feeble  hand  may  leave  upon  the  years, 
Beside  the  record  of  her  burning  tears, 
Words  of  inspiration  —  heaven-caught, 
Which  show  us  earth  and  Christ  as  suffering  wrought 

For  her  the  revelation. 

When  having  won  a  patient  ear, 
Will  tell  the  simple  story  of  the  cross : 
The  greater  suffering — the  greater  loss 
Which  that  dear  Saviour  bore,  whose  love  to  save 
Poor  wanderers  from  a  cruel  death  and  grave  — 

Of  sin,  his  precious  life  he  gave. 

Oh  !  more  than  human  love  was  this. 
Oh !  touching  story  which  a  child  may  feel. 
Who  may  not  tell  it,  who  may  not  reveal 


36  YANCEY  RESTS. 

The  mystery  some  potent  hand  has  stirred  ? 
Impelled  to  utterance  the  facts  averred 
That  teach  us  here  are  life  and  love. 

The  world  is  wide,  God  far  away, 
Unless  we  have  some  mission  in  our  lives 
Of  good  to  others  every  day,  which  strives 
To  aid  the  weak  and  erring,  help  them  o'er 
Time's  wide,  rough  ocean,  to  the  shining  shore 

Whose  borders  are  the  yet  to  be. 


YANCEY  RESTS. 

a  hillock  rising  fair, 
Wrapt  about  with  starlit  dreams, 
Gloaming  shadows  hover  there, 
And  the  darkness  darker  seems. 

Back  unto  the  olden  life, 

Peaceful  tides  are  coursing  slow ; 
Free  from  terror,  dash,  and  strife, 

O'er  the  proud  head  lying  low. 
Softly  'neath  the  amber  sun, 

Spice-winds  blow  and  palm-trees  wave : 
Though  his  rest  was  nobly  won, 

Ceaseless  twilight  shrouds  his  grave. 

Oh !  the  silence  long  and  deep, 
Stretching  to  eternal  morn. 


AUTUMN  MAIN.  37 

Never  broken  be  that  sleep 

On  his  country's  heart  forlorn. 
Great  souls  bowing  felt  the  stroke, 
When  his  heart  in  sorrow  broke. 


AUTUMN  KAIN. 

H  !  patter,  patter ;  list  the  ceaseless  rain, 
Upon  the  roof,  a  melancholy  strain ; 
A  constant  tattoo,  never  out  of  time : 
The  soft  sedate  contralto  of  my  rhyme, 
"Whose  tidal  music,  ever  coursing  on 
Beneath  the  cold  dark  arch  of  years  bygone, 
Breaks  dreamily  upon  my  work,  and  lo ! 
Strange  fancies  woo  me  as  they  come  and  go. 

Though  bowing  'neath  the  weight  of  sordid  things, 
I  wander  through  the  blight  of  many  springs 
To  one  so  very  fair,  so  long  gone  by, 
Where  hope  shone  sweetly  in  the  morning  sky ; 
And  there  was  other  music  in  the  day 
Than  falling  rain  upon  life's  lightsome  way. 
No  breath  had  chill'd,  as  now,  the  early  flow'rs, 
No  burning  tears  fell  through  the  autumn  hours. 

Ah  !  then  I  loved  to  hear  the  cold  drops  fall, 
Like  human  tears  upon  the  summer's  pall, 


38  A  UTUMN  RAIN. 

And  see  the  sere  leaves  flutter  on  the  air, 

Like  birds  unmated,  drifting  anywhere. 

But  oh  !  when  dearest  hopes  like  these  take  flight, 

And  soar  beyond  the  range  of  human  sight: 

When  other  bitter  drops  like  flowers  fall, 

And  mist  of  mortal  tears  is  over  all, 

There  is  such  pathos  in  the  sad  refrain, 

Such  mellow  music  in  the  autumn  rain. 

Love  of  my  soul,  inanimate  and  still ! 

Myriad  voices  once  proclaimed  at  will 

The  hopes  and  dreams  that  were  so  vainly  vain. 

The  heart,  now  lorn  and  lonely  in  its  pain, 

Was  glad;  with  strong  deep  pulses  bounding  free, 

And  joyous  with  exultant  constancy. 

O  silent  throbs  !  O  passion  wild  and  vain  ! 

Thy  flowers  fall  beneath  the  autumn  rain. 

O  solemn  day,  so  full  of  longing  now  ! 

O  record  of  thy  pain  upon  my  brow ! 

0  broken  dreams !  thy  graves  are  everywhere. 
Seas  hold  thy  forms  of  old;  and  boundless  air 
Is  filled  with  shapes  so  exquisitely  fair. 
Ne'er  hidden  in  a  tomb  where  I  might  bow, 
And  kiss  the  pure  white  chaplet  faded  now. 
They  glided  'neath  the  same  cold  arch  at  last, 
Along  the  silent  way  my  dead  ones  passed  ; 
Yet  gave  no  promises  to  soothe  my  pain, 
That  I  might  ever  dream  those  dreams  again. 

1  shudder  for  my  dead,  outlying  where 
No  heai-t  of  mine  can  shelter  them  fore'er. 


THE  GLORIA   IN  EXCELS  IS.  39 

I  know  the  Father  guards  them,  though  I  weep; 
For,  oh  !  "  he  giveth  his  beloved  sleep." 
And  yet  I  long  to  clasp  them  once  again, 
Those  patient  sleepers  'neath  the  autumn  rain. 

Now  over  all  the  mist  and  mortal  blight, 
Though  trust  is  shining  sweetly  on  the  height 
Of  faith,  the  path  is  lone  and  drear, 
Marked  by  many  an  agonizing  tear. 
And  yet  I  know  it  leads  to  peace  again, — 
Though  winter  should  succeed  the  autumn  rain. 
Yistas  of  summer  lie  beyond  !  and  soon 
Will  ope  the  portals  of  some  fairy  June, 
That  is  "eternal ;  where,  through  Jesus'  grace, 
We  '11  find  in  his  great  love  a  genial  place; 
Unmarked  by  loss,  as  in  this  age  of  pain, 
Or  clinging  cross,  or  scourging  autumn  rain. 


THE  GLORIA  IN  EXCELSIS. 


CTOBER  with  her  altars  red, 
And  vestal  fires  that  lately  shed 
Their  lustre  over  us,  is  dead. 


The  autumn  fields  lie  crisp  and  bare  ; 
On  ways  of  earth  are  gloom  and  care, 
And  flitting  shadows  everywhere. 


40  THE  GLORIA   IN  EXCELSIS. 

Like  bronze  appears  the  golden  maize, 

And  fallen  leaves  have  hid  the  ways 

To  woodland  shrines  of  prayer  and  praise. 

I  list  in  vain  one  birdling's  trill. 

Or  silver  voice  of  sunny  rill ; 

The  upland  brook  is  locked  and  still. 

Alas !  that  earth  should  fail  to  keep 
The  least  of  all  her  glories:  —  weepl 
Ours  leave  us  for  a  longer  sleep. 

Upon  the  smallest  thing  I  read, 
Just  what  the  inner  prompting  said, 
A  resurrection  from  the  dead. 

Thus  nature  doth  rehearse  the  plan 
Of  free  salvation,  life  to  man : 
Her  seasons  must  be  born  again. 

0  world,  with  all  your  clinging  mould, 
And  ceaseless  strife  for  paltry  gold, 
How  much  of  loss  and  pain  you  hold ! 

1  know  your  vigils  long  and  vain ; 

To  break  your  weight  of  galling  chain 
My  soul  did  strive  with  might  and  main. 

The  images  my  heart  did  make, 
Some  cruel  hand  of  fate  did  shake, 
Or  stern  iconoclast  did  break. 


THE   GLORIA  IN  EXCELS1S.  41 

I  wore  the  fetters  yet  a  while, 
Then  laid  the  broken  shapes  of  guile 
Down  at  my  Saviour's  feet.     A  smile 

Gave  he  in  answer  to  each  tear, 
Until,  upon  my  doubt  and  fear, 
A  star  of  faith  rose  bright  and  clear, 

Upon  the  mazes  of  the  way: 

I  quenched  my  thirsting  in  the  spray 

Of  fountain  pure  as  rising  day. 

A  voice  rose  clear  above  the  din  :  — 
"  There  is  a  life  which  you  may  win, 
Whose  hidden  wealth  lies  all  within." 

I  opened  wide  the  doors  of  mind, 
To  seek  the  treasure  I  designed. 
1  asked  of  God,  and  he  was  kind. 

He  saw  my  needs,  and  gave  me  all 

The  boundless  riches  of  a  soul 

His  hands  had  made  for  my  control. 

Now,  while  I  consecrate  my  gift, 
Some  mystic  power  has  seemed  to  sift 
From  life  the  useless  passing  drift, 

And  left  the  current  bright  and  free 
Of  thought.     I  can  no  longer  be 
The  slave  of  time  and  misery. 
4* 


42  THE    GLORIA   IN  EXCEL  SIS. 

I  seem  to  feel  a  presence  near 
Just  up  above  me  in  the  clear 
Bright  shimmer  of  the  heavenly  air. 

A  radiant  something  at  my  side  : 
A  hand  touch  mine,  as  if  to  guide 
Aright  my  pen,  some  angel  tried. 

Here,  in  my  lone  retreat,  I  seem 
To  catch  the  distant  glory-gleam 
Of  many  a  pai'adisal  dream. 

1  long  to  speak  with  other  tongue, 
And  then  to  hear  God's  praises  rung 
The  multitudes  of  earth  among. 

I  think  I  list  with  other  ear 
The  music  of  that  higher  sphere, 
That  home  so  far,  and  yet  so  near ; 

And  oft  behold,  with  other  eyes, 
The  glimmer  of  the  inner  skies, 
Through  outer  domes  of  paradise. 

The  crystal  water  gleaming  wide, 
The  radiant  shore  beyond  the  tide, 
And  footprints  of  the  gloi'ified. 

Below  me  lie  the  plains  of  earth, 
With  gliding  pageant  scarcely  worth 
The  faintest  hope  of  higher  birth. 


THE   GLORIA    IN  EXCEL  SIS.  43 

I  had  a  dream  :  it  was  so  strange, 
A  love  that  never  cared  to  range 
Burned  clearer  in  the  fires  of  change. 

'Twas  not  for  me.  Now  I  repent 
That  I  repined.  It  was  not  sent : 
The  passing  vision  came  and  went. 

Oh !  friends  so  true,  through  gliding  years, 
Whose  hearts  have  borne  my  rain  of  tears, 
Whose  radiant  faces  light  my  fears ! 

These  are  my  helpers!  —  my  delight !  — 
My  compensation  meet  and  right, 

0  Father,  in  thy  blessed  sight 

These  are  the  works  my  clearer  sight 
Has  shown  to  me.     A  path  of  light 
Streams  out  upon  the  shores  of  night. 

No  ripple  seems  to  stir  the  air, 
So  filled  with  melody,  as  'twere 
A  role  of  triumph  rich  and  rare. 

1  lay  aside  my  earth -worn  guise,  — 
My  soul  is  full  of  glad  surprise ; 

My  thoughts  in  prayerful  anthems  rise. 

And  now  a  hope  is  swift  to  start, 
Soft,  like  an  echo,  in  my  heart, 
That  I  may  win  a  nobler  part, 


44  THE   CUMBERLAND. 

And  place  amid  God's  working  throng, 
Borne  to  those  shining  gates  along, 
By  the  sweet  magic  of  a  song 

Whose  cadence  rings  through  all  my  days. 
The  burden-chant  of  all  my  lays  — 
Shall  be  this  song  of  love  and  praise. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

IIE  sun  sank  calmly  on  thy  breast; 
Mist  gathered  in  the  glowing  west, 
Eound  Edgefield's  spires.     The  night  was  still. 

The  moon  came  out  o'er  College  Hill : 

With  floods  of  golden  arrows  bright 

Wooed  thy  deeps  to  waves  of  light  — 

Shone  cleai'ly  on  the  sentry's  beat, 
Mid  camp-fires  blazing  in  the  street ; 
And  gilding  Negley's  summit  star, 
And  banner  proudly  floating  there  — 
A  talisman  to  all  who  prize, 
And  view  our  flag  with  moistened  eyes — 

When  out  upon  the  picket-line, 
So  stilly  in  the  cold  moonshine, 
They  listened  for  the  faintest  sound  ; 
Then  rushing  deathward  with  a  bound, 
When  swift  convulsion,  boding  harm, 
Should  change  this  starlit  calm  to  storm. 


THE  CUMBERLAND.  45 

Above  yon  tented  walls,  at  night, 

The  Capitol  stands  ghastly  white. 

In  many  a  far,  far  home  is  woe, 

Mementoed  in  the  vale  below, 

Where  break  thy  waves  in  graceful  spray 

To  music  in  the  closing  day. 

Dream  on,  brave  heroes,  silently ! 
Glide  on,  bright  river,  to  the  sea  ! 
The  pride  of  north  and  southern  lands, 
The  joy  of  broken  household  bands ; 
True  hearts,  that  bled  at  every  pore, 
Lie  buried  on  thy  starlit  shore. 

Peace  was  abroad !  in  dreams  that  night, 
I  saw  cold  hearth-stones  gleaming  bright; 
Loved  ones  at  home  amid  the  throng 
"Who  felt  their  absence,  oh  !  how  long; 
And  saw  the  dead  just  passing  o'er 
Thy  tides  unto  God's  golden  shore  ;  — 

Saw  brothers  linking  heart  and  hand 
In  union  on  that  lovelit  strand  ; 
No  war-drawn  front  nor  vigils  there, 
No  breaking  hearts  for  them  to  share ; 
No  blood-bought  peace  or  red-brow'd  Mars 
To  pluck  from  thee  thy  mirror'd  stars. 


46  no  ME. 


HOME. 

EE  a  track  where  the  dead  leaves  lie, 
The  home-bound  train  doth  fleetly  fly ; 
The  plains  are  ruddy,  and  reeds  of  gold, 
Like  sun-bars,  lattice  heather  and  wold. 
Where  purple  altheas  glance  and  quiver, 
The  sinuous  trail  of  many  a  river, 
Is  bridged  by  the  feet  that  trample  down 
Wayside  flowers  in  country  or  town. 

Loud  tones  of  the  engine  deft  and  shrill, 
Wake  echoes  grand  from  valley  and  hill ; 
Whirling  along  through  woodland  and  field, 
With  crash  of  iron  and  clank  of  steel. 
Livid  bolts  of  fire  that  rise  and  fall, 
Through  the  pallid  glare  that  is  over  all. 
The  pause — the  shadow  of  night  amain 
The  starless  mist  and  the  driving  rain, — 

And  the  drifting  cloudlets  vapor-hung  : 

O'er  still  dark  woods  was  the  echo  rung, 

"  Of  home  sweet  home"  while  the  train  swept  on, 

Leaving  the  grace  of  a  vision  gone  — 

Like  vanished  day  from  the  mountain  side, 

Where  a  fordless  river,  deep  and  wide, 

Crept  slowly  on  to  the  ocean-tide. 


HOME.  47 


Silence  o'er  time  in  the  growing  space, 
Fell  like  a  shroud  on  a  loved  dead  face. 
I  dreamed  in  the  clasp  of  memory, 
With  a  phantom  bright  for  company: 
A  beauteous  shape  that  glided  away, 
And  left  me  alone  in  the  night  to  pray 
For  the  rising  moon,  or  the  dawn  of  day. 


Now  over  the  spaces  far  out  on  the  night, 
Flash  glittering  moonbeams  silvery  white ; 
Trembling — drifting,  while  golden  stars  quiver 
Down  in  the  heart  of  the  luminous  river, 
Singing  again  on  its  way — forever. 

'  Time  spares  age  nor  youth  1 
Clasped  hands — plighted  hearts 

Earth  may  dissever: 
Change  curses  the  world  ! 
God's  grace  is  love's  truth  ! 
God's  love  life  imparts, 
"  His  mercy  "  is  ruth  — 

And  "  endureth  forever." ' 

Over  the  deserts  of  woodland  and  wold  ; 
Glowing  in  summer,  in  winter  bleak  cold; 
Over  the  reaches  of  land  and  of  wave, 
Linking  existence  from  cradle  to  grave ! 
God's  is  the  power  all  potent  to  save  — 
Worlds  from  the  wreck  of  their  votaries  blind, 
Hearts  from  their  breaking,  souls  truly  shrined 


48  TO  MY  FRIEND. 

In  caskets  of  truth  from  sorrow  and  pain ; 
By  strength  of  their  love,  reunited  again. 

Oh,  in  the  light  of  our  beautiful  star, 
And  moon  gleaming  white  on  summit  and  spar, 
Over  the  path  bright  with  truth,  darling,  come : 
For  us  'tis  the  better,  the  only  way  home. 
There 's  waiting  for  hearts,  and  work  day  by  day, 
For  God  and  the  world  !  yet  a  luminous  ray 
Of  hope  gilds  desert  and  wave.     Be  our  rest  — 
Our  home  on  starlighted  shores  of  the  blest. 
All  life  's  but  a  day,  and  at  evening  we'll  glide 
To  the  angelic  haven  of  love  —  side  by  side. 


TO  MY  FKIEND, 

MRS.  EDMUND    J.  DAUMONT,  OF  LOUISVILLE,  KENTUCKY. 


over  all  this  wide  and  weary  world, 
Were  cast  grave  shadows  of  a  buried  trust; 
And  sable  banners  of  despair  unfurled, 
Where  love's  fair  shapes  were  stricken  into  dust, 
Thy  spirit  linked  with  mine,  sat  by  the  grave 

Where  my  sad  heart  lay  silent,  past  rebound: 
'Twas  thy  sweet  lips  that  said,  "  Dear  friend,  be  brave, 
Our  Father's  love  will  heal  the  bleeding  wound. 

"  From  out  the  gloaming  darkness  light  will  spring  ! 
The  chaos  into  beauteous  order  grow  j 


TO  MY  FRIEND.  49 

The  tiny  bird  of  peace,  with  radiant  wing, 
Will  circle  all  those  hours  of  rayless  woe, 

In  which  the  lovelight  of  thy  blighted  life 
Faded,  while  tears,  bitter  and  swift,  fell  down. 

Through  years  of  waiting,  and  of  spirit-strife, 
Thy  portion  is  the  cross,  be  thine  the  crown." 

That  crown  of  promise  sitting  by  thy  side, 

To  win  it,  thou  hast  shown  to  me  the  way  ; 
But  oh  !  the  spaces  seem  so  far  and  wide, 

And  night  around  me  lowers  cold  and  gray, 
Though  thy  sweet  love  has  fail'd,  or  falter'd  ne'er, 

But  brightened  all  my  darkness  like  a  star. 
No  fate  dividing  us,  save  death  I  fear; 

No  blight  to  come  can  e'er  that  glory  mar. 

Now  let  the  great  world  spin  its  endless  course, 

From  winter  unto  winter  back  again ; 
Let  other  storm-winds  blow  with  cruel  force, 

And  drench  us  with  their  scourging  chill  and  rain. 
Our  love  shall  stand  all  tests  of  coming  time, 

E'er  "firm   and    steadfast"  —  watchwords  of  the 

strong; 
Linked,  thy  sweet  songs  unto  my  untaught  rhyme, 

Forming  bright  chains  of  truth  enduring  long. 

Truth  that  has  been  fore'er,  my  shield  and  joy; 

Making  thee  all-glorious  as  thou  art: 
It  beams  from  out  the  clear  eyes  of  thy  boy, 

And  lightens  many  a  sad  and  weary  heart. 
5  D 


50  TO   MY  FRIEND. 

Thy  brow  is  radiant  with  its  holy  trace, 

Its  spirit-fingers  touch  thy  soft,  brown  hair; 

If  ever  worth  sat  on  a  human  face, 

Then  does  thine  own,  sweet  friend,  its  impress  wear. 

And  oh  !  perchance,  when  I  shall  pass  away, 

And  earth  shall  hold  no  longer  any  trace 
Of  what  has  been,  then  let  thy  dear  feet  stray 

To  the  still  mound  uprisen  o'er  my  face. 
Eemembering  all  the  past,  —  our  past,  —  the  days 

When  thy  sweet  love  was  half  the  world  to  me. 
And  know  my  heart  is  blessing  thee  always, 

My  spirit  lingering  ever  near  to  thee. 

Teach  darling  Eddie  to  remember  too, 

How  his  sweet  prattle  bound  him  to  my  heart ; 
And  thy  bright  home,  whose  quiet  pleasures  grew 

To  be  of  my  sad  life  so  dear  a  part. 
I  would  not  linger  on  in  dreary  pain, 

A  waiting  pilgrim,  when  thy  work  is  done : 
My  life  of  sacrifice  would  seem  so  vain, 

My  journey  lonely  toward  the  setting  sun. 

Sweet  friend,  the  strife  is  past !  't  is  over  now, 

The  better  way  I've  found  'mid  grief  and  tears. 
Life's  noon  lies  radiant  on  the  mountain's  brow, 

To  which  I  climbed  those  lonely,  loveless  years 
Of  toil  and  loss  and  pain.     I  see  beyond 

The  summit,  stars  of  Zion  gleaming  where 
They  said  I  should  behold  them.     Farther  on 

"  A  rest  remaineth,"  —  we  will  seek  it  there. 


WAITING.  51 


WAITING. 

•  AITING  where  life  found  us 

Through  its  weary  day, 
With  its  seas  around  us 
Moaning  drearily. 
Waiting  in  the  starshine 

Of  a  cruel  dark. 
Oh !  the  constant  soul-pine 
For  the  spirit-arc. 

Hearts  so  sadly  waiting 

On  this  lower  strand 
For  some  love  to  guide  them 

To  the  better  land. 
Seeking  —  never  finding; 

Waiting  all  the  way 
For  the  swift  unwinding 

Of  life's  mystery. 

Through  the  season's  waiting, 

Joys  we  never  know: 
Desire  never  sating 

In  time's  sullen  flow. 
While  the  sands  are  falling 

On  the  passing  shore, 
See  the  dawn-light  breaking 

In  the  evermore. 


52  DIVIDED. 


DIVIDED. 

HEEB  is  a  glamour  in  the  autumn  air ; 

A  mist  of  purple  sunshine  hanging  fair  ; 

And  golden  on  the  steeples,  lifting  high, 
Their  glittering  turrets  in  the  hazy  sky ; 
A  shadow  on  the  earth  —  a  phantom  dread, 
That  he  —  the  life  of  my  love's  life  —  is  dead. 

Cold  hands  press  mine  in  slumber;  and  a  form 
Most  spectral  chills  my  blood  so  rich  and  warm, 
With  face  as  white  as  polar  snows ;  the  lips 
Are  sweetly  smiling  as  in  time's  eclipse 
Eternity  had  shown  him  strangely  blent, 
Love's  finite  mystery  with  the  infinite. 

0  God,  I  thought  not  it  was  "unto  death," 
That  last  fond  parting  when  his  heated  breath 
Came  gushing  faint  and  swift ;  the  restless  eye, 
Where  love's  sweet  madness  burned  too  fatally, 
Looked  yet  with  calm  and  patient  truth  in  mine, 
With  human  tenderness  almost  divine. 

For  him  to  die,  and  I  not  near,  to  press 
His  pallid  cheek  as  in  one  last  caress, 

1  bid  the  wrathful  fever  cease  to  burn, 
While  brain  and  soul  and  being  fondly  yearn 
To  lay  his  head  upon  my  breaking  heart, 
And  tell  him  how  I  loved  him,  ere  we  part. 


THE   OLD  AND   THE  NEW.  53 

To  feel  upon  my  brow  his  mystic  touch, 

To  realize  the  love  that  suffered  much. 

To  hear  once  more,  'neath  God's  eternal  sun, 

The  words  of  trust  that  blent  our  lives  in  one : 

To  clasp  him  closely,  that  the  death-cold  tide 

Might  bear  us  "o'er  the  river"  —  side  by  side. 

To  sleep  together  in  some  quiet  spot, 
Where  odors  of  the  wild  forget-me-not 
Will  stir  our  grave-grass  in  the  autumn  sere, 
And  fill  the  air  with  heaven's  fragrance  there. 
To  know  no  waking  from  that  painless  rest, 
Than  years  of  life  apart,  'twould  be  more  blest. 

His  "  life  in  death"  means,  death  in  life  for  me  ! 
There  's  mockery  in  each  happy  scene  I  see. 
No  tale  of  home  on  any  face  I  meet, 
In  all  the  concourse  through  the  noontide  street. 
That  soul  has  soared  away,  that  glory's  orbed, 
i     The  world's  great  heart  is  still :  through  him  it  throbb'd. 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW. 


year  has  crossed  the  rolling  river, 
On  the  suspended  bridge  of  many  sighs, 
And  upward  to  thy  throne,  oh  !  great  All-giver, 
Trembling  prayers  from  living  millions  rise  : 
5* 


54  THE   OLD  AND    THE  NEW. 

For  that  rude  chains  were  broken,  and  the  fetters 

Of  .many  sordid  things  are  cleft  in  twain  ; 
And  weights  from  off  sore  hearts,  and  glowing  letters 

Deep  wrought  in  blood,  show  us  the  clinging  stain 
Of  sacrifice  upon  the  snowy  pillow, 

Where  the  worn  dotard  laid  his  dying  head, 
Stricken  so  still  and  wan.     The  unreturning  billow 

Has  borne  Mm  over — the  old  year  is  dead. 

He  sleepeth  now  beneath  time's  grave-strewn  valley, 

Where  others  rest,  the  warfare  safely  o'er; 
The  strife  is  ended,  he  no  more  shall  rally, 

To  stem  life's  battle-current  as  of  yore. 
Yet,  oh!  what  spirits  brave  are  wailing  sadly; 

What  loving  human  hearts  are  breaking  slow; 
What  silent,  silent  tones  are  striving  madly 

Above  the  spoiler-king  now  lying  low, 
For  words  to  tell  the  all  that  he  has  taken, 

Of  treasures  which  they  fondly  thought  to  keep; 
Of  hopes  decaying  swift  —  spirits  forsaken 

Who  envy  the  old  year  his  dreamless  sleep. 

What  garlands  withered  we  have  wildly  woven  ; 

What  blossoms  faded  in  the  spring-time  gone  ; 
What  temples  fallen,  and  what  pure  shapes  cloven 

With  solemn  blight,  and  wastes  the  snows  adorn. 
What  dreams  were  broken  in  the  sad  awaking 

From  fitful  spii'it-slumbers,  void  of  rest ; 
What  glories  paling  slow  and  altars  quaking 

'Neath  desecrated  off 'rings  —  sin-caressed. 
Oh  !  in  the  summer  gone,  how  many  reapers 

Have  garnered  tares  in  lieu  of  golden  grain  ; 


THE   OLD  AND    THE  NEW.  55 

What  opportunities  are  lost,  and  idle  sleepers 
Unhearing  ever  the  great  life-refrain ! 

Whose  tones  are  not  all  grief-tones  in  the  music; 

Some  notes  thrill  to  the  touch  of  fingers  bright, 
And  blessings  swift  descend  with  light,  infusing 

A  radiance  serene  as  stars  of  night. 
We  can  forget  anon  the  broken  sceptres 

We  hoped  to  wield  in  kingdoms  of  the  heart ; 
And  how  the  warning  rule  of  fate's  preceptors, 

Who  thus  the  master's  lessons  do  impart, 
Made  us  forego  some  phantom  wildly  chasing, 

Yet  filled  the  void  with  lesser,  purer  things ; 
And  while  the  record  of  our  wrong  erasing, 

The  fruit  of  sacrifice  unfailing  brings. 

We  steep  our  souls  in  founts  of  love  unceasing ! 

Then  lips  which  care  had  rendered  thin  and  wan 
Proclaim  the  life  anew  —  with  joy  increasing 

Each  noble  impulse  glowing  as  the  morn. 
With  mien  of  courtly  grace  the  day  advances ! 

0  glorious  face  of  a  new  year  to  see  ; 
Whose  dimless  lustre  the  pure  mind  entrances, 

With  spirit-glimpses  of  the  life  to  be ! 
O  may  the  fetters  fall,  and  souls,  renewing 

Their  covenant  of  faith,  be  strong  and  true 
To  wage  a  patient  warfare,  humbly  doing 

The  noble  work  the  Master  set  to  do. 

Old  year,  upon  thy  shrine  we  lay  our  tribute 
Of  unseen  tears  for  what  with  thee  has  gone. 


56  BRO  WN  EYES. 

Brave  hearts  may  tremble,  yet  they  ne'er  exhibit 

One  trace  of  all  the  struggle  whence  was  born 
The  quiet  strength  of  purpose,  underlying 

The  smallest  wish  of  ours  to  do  and  dare 
For  God  and  for  the  world,  by  meekly  trying 

To  be  more  steadfast  in  our  work  and  prayer. 
Anear  thy  tomb  we  plant  the  simple  flowers, 

Which  bloom  —  and  latest  wither  on  the  way. 
Perchance  their  fragrance  in  the  heav'nly  bowers 

May  sweeten  there  a  never-ending  day. 


BROWN  EYES. 

INSCRIBED  TO  Miss  JULIA  CHAMBERLIN,  OP  LOUISVILLE,  KY.,  WHOSE 

EXQUISITE    PERSONAL   LOVELINESS  IS  ONLY  EQUALLED  BY  HER   GRACE 
AND  BEAUTY  OF   MIND   AND   CHARACTER. 

yon  worlds  in  the  spaces  we  see 
Should  vouchsafe  their  treasures  to  me, 
That  I  might  embellish  the  shrine 
Of  thy  beauty  with  tribute  divine, — 
Very  paltry  the  off'ring  would  seem, 
Compared  to  the  splendors  which  beam, 
And  the  boundless  glories  that  rise 
From  the  depths  of  thy  luminous  eyes. 

"Bronze-brown  "  —  with  soft  lashes  of  jet 
In  the  dew  of  sweet  radiance  wet ; 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  BRAVE  SOLDIER.   57 

Scarce  veiling  those  temples  of  light, 
Where  thy  soul  holds  a  carnival  bright 
Of  the  shapes  that  are  rarest.     Brown  eyes, 
Now  melting  with  dazzling  surprise, 
Now  flashing  with  mirth  ;  and  anon 
Breaking  forth  like  the  light  of  a  morn 
Half  hidden  in  shadow.     Bright  eyes, 
Where  a  slumberous  mystery  lies. 
Sweet  eyes,  may  thy  light  ever  beam 
Like  the  soul  of  some  exquisite  dream, 
Bright'ning  glooms  that  lie  on  the  way, 
Till  we  soar  to  the  pure  "  upper  day." 

There 's  a  light  in  my  heart  like  the  sheen 
That  lies  brooding  so  spell-like,  serene, 
On  the  gems  of  their  lustre  divine. 
Brown  eyes,  the  sweet  magic  is  thine. 


IN  MEMOEY  OF 

A.  BRAVE    SOLDIER,    WHO,    AFAR    IN    THE    LANK  OF   THE    STRANGER,   LAY 
DOWN  TO  SLEEP,  TO  AWAIT  THE  REVEILLE  OF  THE  ETERNAL   MORNING. 

§UTUMN-woods  are  growing  russet 
In  the  gorgeous  purple  sunset 
Of  the  waning  day. 
Sad  we  're  thinking  how  the  sunshine, 
From  thy  far-off  home,  at  noon-time 
Went  with  thee  away. 


58  IN  MEMORY  OF 

Summer,  then,  was  in  the  heather, 
Flowers  fair,  and  sunny  weather ; 

Hearts  with  loving  light, 
Saddened  by  the  farewell  spoken, 
Gladdened  by  no  coming  token  — 

Broken  ere  the  night. 

Oh  I  to  think  that  thou  wert  lying, 
As  the  autumn-leaves  were  dying, 

On  the  forest-mould, 
Homeless,  tentless  in  the  gleaming, 
Moonbeams  on  thy  bright  hair  streaming 

In  the  midnight-cold. 

Closed  on  earth  thy  brown  eyes'  brightness, 
Still  lips  frozen  in  their  whiteness, 

Dust  upon  thy  brow. 
Far  from  Hartland  thou  art  sleeping, 
Stars  above  thee  vigil  keeping, 

Watching,  we,  below. 

Grander  soul  ne'er  wore  a  fetter; 
Parting  words  e'er  braver,  better, 

Eived  a  golden  bond. 
Through  the  night-time,  ever  gleaming 
Beacon-like,  those  words  are  streaming 

In  the  dark  beyond : — 

"  I  will  never  more  forget  you, 
Come  the  sunshine  or  the  shadow 
To  our  earthly  way. 


A   BRAVE  SOLDIER.  59 

But  my  country  I  hear  her  pleading, 
While  her  bravest  sons  are  bleeding  I 
Must  not  I  obey  ? 

"  Though  the  voice  of  love  has  power 
Strong  to  move  me  in  this  hour, 

Sterner  will  might  bend. 
Glorious  spirits  round  me  falling, 
Willing  sacrifices,  calling, — 

'  God  and  right  defend !'" 

Other  hearts  than  ours  are  breaking 
With  their  weary  weight  of  aching  — 

Daily  doomed  to  die. 
Others,  too,  will  break  to-morrow, 
'Neath  the  crushing  weight  of  sorrow, 

In  the  tempest  nigh. 

Soldier  sleeping !  God  is  with  thee ! 
Through  the  night-time  ever  weary, 

Loved  ones  far  away 
Wait  the  reveille  at  morning. 
We  shall  greet  thee  in  the  dawning 

Of  a  brighter  day. 


60  TO  A   FRIEND, 

TO  A  FKIEND, 

ON    RECEIPT    OP    SOME    CUERANT-WINE. 

SAW  the  bright  liquid  flow  out  from  the  brim 
ruby-necked  bottle,  so  taper  and  trim ; 
Beheld  the  clear  bubbles  kissing  the  bowl  — 
The  rosy-red  current  that  livens  the  soul. 

Then  tasting  !  and  gently  closing  my  eyes, — 
I  saw  distant  waves  in  their  roseate  rise, — 
'Mid  visions  of  yore — of  the  famous  Ehine-land, 
Where  rich,  purple  clusters  hung  low  on  the  strand. 

'T  was  sweet  as  the  nectar  the  honey-bee  sips, 

'T  was  red  as  the  roses  on  beauty's  soft  lips, 

'T  was  sparkling  and  bright  as  the  dew  of  the  morn 

Whence  glorious  rainbows  of  noonday  are  born. 

'T  was  a  mystical  draught,  dear  friend,  I  assure, 
Limpid  as  constancy,  steadfast  and  pure  ; 
Fragrant  as  odors  distilled  from  the  flowers ; 
Enduring  and  strong  as  this  friendship  of  ours. 


PROMISE.  61 


PEOMISE. 

JET®  LITTLE  ring— a  band  of  gold, 
'    A  circling,  shining  gift  of  old. 

Frail  symbol !  what  a  wealth  you  hold 
Of  treasure  never  bought  or  sold ; 
Spring-blossoms  lying  'neath  the  mould 
Of  time ;  and  heart  that  loved,  grown  cold. 

Ah!  loved  birds,  joyous  in  the  spring, 
When  autumn  came,  refused  to  sing; 
Yet  still  I  wear  you,  little  ring, 
A  cold,  bright,  senseless,  silent  thing, 
That  binds  me  to  the  tears  you  bring. 
And  girds  the  cross  to  which  I  cling. 

Ah!  little  ring,  within  your  spell, 

Was  I  those  tides  of  soul  to  quell, 

"When  listening  to  the  golden  bell 

That  rung  the  paean  ?    I  loved  too  well, — 

To  dream  how  soon  those  chimes  would  knell 

The  loss  and  changes  since  befell. 

Oh  1  rayless  days  that  wail  and  pine, 
All  flowerless  within  the  shine 
And  glory  of  an  olden  shrine 
Of  worship,  that  was  too  divine 
With  blossoms  of  the  earth  to  twine. 

Idolatry,  thy  curse  was  mine  I 
6 


62  TO  S.  A.  H. 

When  toiling  up  fate's  rugged  steep, 
And  shadows  to  the  summit  creep, 
The  chimes  bid  me  bend  low  to  weep 
For  other  years  and  hopes  that  sleep 
Beneath  life's  outspread  sunless  deep  ; 
I  will  fore'er  my  symbol  keep, — 
Till  Christ  those  promise  gates  shall  ope, 
Where  grows  in  realms  of  boundless  scope 
That  border  on  life's  sunset-slope, 
The  fruitage  of  earth's  wasted  hope. 


TO  S.  A.  H. 

•  HEN  I,swith  listening  heart,  among 
The  spirits  of  that  brilliant  throngx 
Heard  first  thy  voice's  witching  trill, 
And  felt  my  inmost  being  thrill 
With  the  sweet  magic  of  each  strain, 
So  blended  in  the  rich  refrain, — 
It  was  as  if  some  angel  bright 
Had  blessed  me  with  a  new  delight  ; 
While  I  in  turn  could  only  bow, 
And  weave  a  chaplet  for  thy  brow, 
The  brightest  in  the  fair  bright  throng, 
And,  crowning,  hail  thee  Queen  of  Song  ! 

A  glorious  gift  to  thee  was  given. 
The  language  of  the  saints  in  heaven 


SUNRISE.  63 

Could  not  be  sweeter  than  the  strains 
Qf  music  such  as  thy  refrains, 
Which  linger  long  beyond  the  hour, 
In  cadences  of  wondrous  power. 
A  charm  —  a  memory  —  a  spell  — 
A  wish  and  prayer  for  thee.     Farewell. 


SUNRISE. 

o'er  the  steeps  of  the  day, 
Where  the  mist  lies  solemn  and  gray, 
He  cometh,  the  king  of  the  morn  ! 
With  an  amulet  fair  to  adorn, 
And  to  clothe  the  dim  chaos  of  old 
In  verdure  bespangled  with  gold ; 
And  his  armor  is  dimless  and  bright, 
As  when  God  said,  "  Let  there  be  light." 
Nature  hails  him  with  clarion-voice, 
And  the  hearts  of  her  people  rejoice. 

God's  noblest  creation  is  man  ! 
The  heart  of  his  wonderful  plan, 
The  soul  for  which  deity  died, 
A  creature  divinely  allied. 

Through  the  waning  light  poor  wandering  feet 
Tread  slowly  the  pave  of  a  broad  still  street, 


64  SUNRISE. 

As  the  wheels  of  time,  with  muffled  tread, 
Bear  the  hooded  day  to  his  twilight-bed. 
"He  is  not  old  yet,  the  race  half  run 
Holds  sceptres  merit  alone  has  won 
In  the  toil  for  gold,  and  the  strife  for  fame, 
And  the  sordid  weight  of  an  empty  name." 

Pale  watcher,  with  faith  growing  faint, 
With  forbearance  season  thy  plaint. 
Great  heart  of  humanity,  sing 
Of  tidings  the  sunrise  shall  bring. 

Let  spirit-feet  of  a  bygone  time 
Walk  through  life's  night  to  its  starry  chime, 
And  find  sweet  joy  in  the  weary  round; 
For  love  lived  on,  though  the  sun  went  down. 

There 's  a  glory  still  in  the  upper  air, 
And  a  world  of  wealth  lies  hidden  there. 
The  radiance  of  Jehovah's  smile 
Will  soon  time's  dai'ksome  glooms  beguile, 
Which  circle  above  yon  western  gate, 
Like  the  minions  of  resistless  fate, 
Whose  messages  are  sounding  knells 
Rung  by  hope's  twilight  vesper-bells. 

Far  worlds  in  the  spaces  rejoice  ! 
Ring  into  the  chorus  each  voice ; 
God's  glory  the  universe  spans, 
And  the  sun  is  the  work  of  his  hands. 


HOPE  IN  DEATH.  05 


HOPE  IN  DEATH. 

^OIL  on,  toil  on,  through  sunless  days, 

plains  where  shadows  darkling  lie ; 
O  heart,  for  thee  drear  desert  ways, 
Through  earth,  and  wail,  and  fear,  and  sigh, 
For  morning  breaking  o'er  a  maze 
Of  sunlit  shores  beyond  the  sky. 
Life-bound,  with  but  a  fleeting  breath, 
And  thine  the  entrance-gate,  O  death, 
To  boundless  life  on  high! 

On  gory  fields  our  heroes  fall ; 

(0  night  of  strife  without  a  star ;) 
Uprisen  at  the  country's  call, 

Looking  to  God  beyond  the  war. 
At  last  enwrapt  within  thy  pall, 

Which  friend  and  foe  so  calmly  wear, 
When  all  is  over,  don  thy  wreath, 
Descend  thy  rugged  vales,  O  death, 

Close  clinging  to  hope's  spar. 

As  morning-suns  light  up  the  skies, 
And  shine  upon  the  battle-plain; 

As  stars  that  in  the  darkness  rise, 
On  ghastly  faces  of  the  slain ; 
6*  E 


60  MY  DREAM. 

Trusting,  a  bleeding  nation  tries 

To  win  its  way  to  peace  again, 
Through  thee,  thou  victor,  gloomy  death  ; 
With  shroud  and  pall  and  cypress- wreath, 
In  hope  we  reign. 

Though  human  voice  has  never  stayed 
The  tides  of  death  that  round  us  roll, 

No  tomb  that  mortal  hands  e'er  made 
Can  hide  the  grandeur  of  a  soul. 

In  glorious  spirit-form  array'd, 

Freed  from  earth's  bondage  and  control, 

Thou,  heart,  shalt  greet  the  morn  again 

Of  peace.     And  every  hero  slain 
Has  Christ's  parole. 


MY  DEEAM. 

the  canopy  of  twilight, 
Gathered  with  a  golden  thread, 
Caught,  as  by  a  shining  anchor, 
In  the  darkness  overhead  ; 
Where  grim,  fitful  shadows  hovered, 

And  the  stars  gleam'd  far  and  cold ; 
Mosses  crisp  the  upland  covered, 
Mists  lay  thickly  on  the  wold. 

All  without  was  rest  and  silence, 
All  within  was  seething  pain ; 


NY  DREAM.  67 

And  my  head  upon  its  pillow 

Dropt  in  weariness  again. 
I  had  seen  the  golden  brightness 

Paling  on  the  brow  of  night ; 
I  had  felt  the  cold  stars  glimmer 

On  the  home-bound  track  of  light. 

I  had  wandered  over  deserts, 

Wastes  of  arid,  burning  sands, 
With  no  drop  to  cool  the  fever 

In  my  heart  or  wasted  hands. 
As  I  lay,  so  mutely  waiting ; 

Then  the  rustle  of  bright  wings, 
And  such  soothing  strains  of  music, 

Bore  me  from  all  earthly  things. 

Ah !  the  world  lay  far  behind  me, 

I  forgot  my  toil  and  pain, 
And  time's  grieving  billows  o'er  me 

Did  not  seem  to  surge  again; 
After  I  had  caught  the  glimmer 

Of  bright  ocean's  costal  clear, 
Where  I  purged  my  earth-worn  semblance 

From  all  traces  of  its  fear. 

Was  it  over  —  all  my  waiting, 

All  my  striving  here  below ; 
Wrestling  with  the  forms  of  evil, 

Warring  with  the  shapes  of  woe; 
With  so  few  to  understand  me, 

Or  to  read  my  freeborn  soul : 


MY  DREAM. 

Were,  indeed,  the  fetters  severed 
With  the  "  breaking  of  the  bowl  "  ? 

Ah  I  it  was  no  dream  —  the  flashing 

Of  those  golden  wings  was  real; 
And  the  gliding  of  the  angels, 

With  soft  whispers  of  appeal, 
Seemed  to  say  again,  "  'T  is  ended ; 

All  life's  sounds  of  pain  and  woe 
With  sweet  triumph  shall  be  blended  : 

Wherefore  dost  thou  linger  so  ?  " 

Then,  beside  the  shining  anchor, 

Burning  clear  upon  the  night, 
There  I  saw  another  anchor  — 

One  small  face,  so  wan  and  white, 
In  its  weight  of  mortal  anguish. 

Ah !  my  heart  grew  hushed  and  still 
While  my  earthly  darling  soothed  me 

With  her  voice's  wailing  trill. 

As  she  sung,  the  waiting  serapns, 

Backward  o'er  the  track  of  light, 
Softly  seemed  to  glide,  and  leave  me 

With  my  loved  one  and  the  night. 
Still  she  waited  there  beside  me, 

When  the  morning,  calm  and  slow, 
Broke  above  the  eastern  gateway, 

Where  our  mornings  come  and  go. 

Then  a  cloud  of  sudden  glory 

Trailed  its  brightness  in  our  home; 


MY  DREAM.  69 

And  a  voice  of  mystic  sweetness 

Echoed  'neath  the  arching  dome  : 
Blent  with  prayerful  thanksgiving 

That  my  life  was  mine  again,  — 
And  drear  orphanage  was  spared  her, 

With  its  loneliness  and  pain. 

Better  all  my  strife  with  living, 

Better  toil  and  gloom  and  care, 
Than  to  leave  her,  yearning,  stricken, 

In  a  world  so  falsely  fair ; 
Then  my  seraphs  did  not  need  me  ! 

Though  my  earthly  darling  clung — 
To  the  heart  that  only  listened 

To  their  music  while  she  sung. 

They  were  angels  with  the  Father ; 

We  were  pilgrims  here  below ; 
Yet  it  was  his  will  we  lingered 

On  the  thorny  way  of  woe. 
Sometime,  as  she  sits  beside  me, 

Till  the  stars  shall  fainter  gleam, 
When  bright  anchors  hold  the  darkness, 

I  shall  tell  her  of  my  dream. 


70  LATONA. 


LATONA. 

FACE  looks  through  my  sombre  dreams  to 
night, 

"With  contour  softened  by  an  inner  light, 
Whereon  my  fancy  cannot  fail  to  trace 
The  proud  soul's  pure  ideal — of  winning  grace, 
And  just  the  faintest  touch  of  joy — to  show 
How  blithe  life's  dreams,  love-lighted,  come  and  go. 

The  eyes  meet  mine  with  a  keen  flush  of  pain; 
A  sense  of  haunting  harmony  —  a  strain 
Of  spirit-melody ;  a  pray'r —  bygone  : 
Blent  with  a  hope  so  sweet,  so  swiftly  flown. 
A  nameless  shadow  on  the  high,  pure  brow, 
An  earnest  want  as  I  recall  it  now. 

An  aimless  reaching  out  adown  the  years, 
Through  deserts  darkened  with  the  mist  of  tears, 
For  the  soul's  resting-place,  —  the  better  part 
Of  life,  —  the  glad  repose  of  heart  to  heart; 
A  voiceless  yearning  while  the  life-tides  glow, 
For  many  things  the  love-less  cannot  know. 

Then  there  are  other  footprints  on  that  face, 
Of  toil  and  conflict  many  a  time  and  place ; 
The  seething  of  still  fires,  which,  day  by  day, 
Consume  the  soul,  or  blight  the  form  of  clay. 


LATONA.  71 

The  stolid  bearing  on  through  time's  dull  mart, 
Of  mortal  ills  that  crush  the  waiting  heart. 

Though  mines  of  unclaimed  treasure  lie  between 
The  shining  summit  where  the  goal  is  seen  ; 
The  unhewn  pathway  up  time's  giddy  steep, 
Where  airy-footed  phantoms  dare  not  creep : 
The  heaven  hangs  very  high,  and  hell  below 
With  glories  luring,  and  with  fires  aglow. 

The  soul  a-wreck  within  the  sight  of  home, 
'Mid  summers  where  the  sunbeams  never  come; 
Or  fire-flies  glancing  through  the  drowsy  air, 
Or  troops  of  busy  swallows  hover  there, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  sombre  pall, 
That  broods  death-like  within  the  silent  hall. 

No  taper  glows  the  blazing  hearth  to  light 

With  Eden-gleam  the  palace-burdened  sight ; 

No  earthly  fane  on  which  the  mind  is  laid, 

In  the  calm  rest  for  which  it  yearned  and  prayed : 

Only  an  inner  temple  with  its  stainless  shrine, 

And  the  sweet  promise,  "  Soon  shall  home  be  thine." 


72  "BEAUTIFUL  SNOW." 


"BEAUTIFUL  SNOW." 

fAST  by  the  bright  wings  of  a  seraph,  the  snow 
From   the   uppermost   heights   to   the   earth 

below : 

Gently  enwrapping  a  star-begemmed  spread  — 
O'er  homes  of  the  living  and  graves  of  the  dead. 
Eadiantly  white,  as  the  genii  of  story; 
Pure  as  the  saints  in  their  robings  of  glory, 
Whose  soft  tears  of  sympathy  froze  in  their  fall, 
For  the  sin  and  curse  that  are  over  us  all ; 
Fleecy  and  light  from  the  olive-hued  skies, 
As  the  trailing  insignia  of  paradise. 
The  one  fair  perishing  thing  that  is  given 
To  the  world  aglow  with  splendors  of  heaven. 

Proud  spirit !  that  told  of  the  height  whence  you  fell, 
"  Adown  like  the  snow-flakes  from  heaven  to  hell." 
God  made  you  as  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow; 
He  loves  you,  poor  sinner,  though  you  may  not  know 
How  deep  in  his  Infinite  heart  sank  your  cry  — 
For  shelter  and  rest  of  the  crowd  passing  by, 
Who  spurned,  and  left  you  to  die  in  the  street, 
With  a  bed  and  shroud  of  the  snow  and  the  sleet. 
The  world  has  cursed  you,  yet  God  has  not  said, 
A  soul  shall  be  bartered  for  gold  or  for  bread. 

He  knows  all  your  erring  and  horrible  woe ! 
The  want  and  crime  that  have  maddened  you  so. 


ONE   YEAR  AGO.  73 

All  the  dearer  to  him  for  strife  and  for  stain, 
And  purer  to-day  for  repentance  and  pain. 
Made  white  by  his  blood  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
"  That  falls  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go ;" 
And  sweeter  the  pardon  hard-won  by  the  cries 
Which  from  Magdalen-lips  went  up  to  the  skies. 

O  beautiful  snow  !  from  the  filth  of  the  earth, 
Swift  rising  again  in  its  cherubic  mirth, 
In  crystalline  dew-drops  all  glistening  bright, 
As  clear,  shining  stars  in  a  heaven  of  night. 
If  contrite  to  the  throne  of  God's  mercy  we  go, 
He  will  lift  up  our  souls  like  the  beautiful  snow. 


ONE  YEAR  AGO. 

YEAE  that  came  and  went  without  its  May 
Or  rosy  June.     This  solemn,  sunless  day, 
I  think  of  one  who  went  the  silent  way 
To  God's  fair  realm  beyond.     I  heard  the  call 
Which  laid  my  heart's  best  self  in  shroud  and  pall, 
Beneath  last  autumn's  mould.     Now  red  leaves  fall, 
And  crisp  and  wither  on  a  far-off  bier. 

0  white-browed  spirit,  linger  ever  near 
Unto  my  earth  !     I  know  thy  soul  is  here; 

1  bow  my  head  in  dust,  and  muse  of  thee, 
And  of  the  many  things  that  were  to  be. 

7 


74  ONE   YEAR   AGO. 

Yet  with  the  cold,  cold  sod  on  thy  young  breast, 
Rude  stranger-hands  have  laid  thee  to  thy  rest. 
I  see  a  pure  white  wreath  whose  blossoms  die, 
There  is  such  autumn  in  the  gale  and  sky. 

One  year  of  clinging  darkness  since  has  flown, 
One  year  of  waiting  and  of  spirit-moan  : 
One  year  of  battles  lost  and  won  on  earth  — 
In  whose  still  bosom  he  has  slept.     The  hearth 
By  which  I  sit  is  desolate.     Oh,  stars  above  ! 
Sing  ye  the  anthems  of  a  deathless  love, 
Though  other  years  stretch  on  as  cold  and  gray 
Their  rounds  of  loneliness  the  life-long  way. 

In  this  sad  autumn-time  my  spirit  craves 
Best  from  the  lashing  of  dark  battle- waves. 
Patience,  tried  heart !  not  yet.     This  may  not  be  ; 
But  in  the  nearing  future  thou  shalt  see, 
The  crimson  channels  closed,  the  nation  free ! 
For  faith  has  said  so !  dearly  bought  my  trust  — 
He  helped  to  fight  this  battle  for  the  just. 

Farewell,  bright  dream !  weird  shadows  come  and  go 
Before  the  stars,  while  cruel  night-winds  blow; 
And  flowers  lie  hidden  'neath  the  first  pale  snow. 
A  golden  wave  broke  on  the  strand  below. 
The  tides  of  life  move  on  with  sullen  flow, 
Without  the  hope  that  died  one  year  ago. 


OLD   AND  POOR.  75 


OLD  AND  POOR 

sexton,  why  do  you  toll  the  bell, 
Now  Jeremy  Benham  is  no  more, 
In  that  careless  way  which  says,  "  All's  well ; 
JT  is  only  a  stranger  old  and  poor  "  ? 

Too  true !  he  was  very  old  and  frail ; 

His  scattered  hair  was  crisp  and  white  ; 
His  life  went  out  with  a  soundless  wail, 

And  his  eyes  had  lost  their  joyous  light  — 

So  long  ago  !  —  Shall  I  tell  you  why, 
With  God  above,  and  his  world  around. 

He  was  left  alone  in  age  to  die, 

And  his  grave  made  in  the  "  potter's  ground  "  ? 

'T is  a  hard  fate  to  be  old  and  poor! 

I  knew  when  Benham  was  rich  and  young; 
And  children  three  played  'round  his  door, 

'Mid  vineyards  where  purple  clusters  hung. 

I  '11  rehearse  the  tale  !  —  yet  bear  along 

The  stranger  gone  to  his  resting-place: 
With  a  fetter  cold  on  the  limbs  once  strong, 
morning-smile  on  the  dead-white  face. 


76  OLD  AND  POOR. 

His  was  a  happy  home  —  far  away 

"Where  northern  crags  in  the  sunlight  glow. 

There 's  no  blight  on  the  land  he  loved,  to-day, 
Though  its  countless  hearts  have  felt  the  throe 

Of  gushing  death-tides  every  place. 

From  arctic  lines  to  antarctic  shore, 
There  are  pale  tracks  on  many  a  face, 

And  many  wanderers  old  and  poor. 

'Neath  a  broken  arch  alone  I  stand, 

Grim  ruin  around  me  everywhere ; 
And  the  dun  waves  press  from  palms  of  sand 

Their  names  who,  dying,  traced  them  there. 

Fair  sun  of  the  south,  on  barren  ways  — 
Beaten,  bleared,  and  tracked  with  gore  — 

Thou  gildest  plains  all  seamed  with  graves, 
And  the  temple-shrines  mock  homeless  poor. 

Pass  Benham  by  —  let  him  rest.     Adorn 
"With  a  marble  crest  yon  kindred  grave. 

His  God  will  find  him  some  sudden  morn. 
Well  I  know  his  dying  eyes  did  crave  — 

One  more  look  at  his  boys.     When  the  flame 
Burned  low  on  his  hearth  —  he  was  so  old 

To  go  abroad  with  his  failing  frame 

And  homeless  heart.     Now  his  story 's  told. 


SACRIFICE.  77 

His  boys  lie  somewhere  under  the  sod, 
In  a  winding-sheet  of  the  blue  they  wore, 

And  Jeremy  Benham  —  claim  him,  God!  — 
Found  dead,  alas  !  on  a  prison-floor. 


Behold  !  yon  glittering  arch  afar 
Spans  temples  of  everlasting  light. 

The  old  and  the  poor  are  sheltered  there, 
In  heaven's  home  of  the  homeless.     Bright 

Are  smiles  of  greeting  —  a  white-robed  form — 
A  world  of  welcome  in  starry  eyes  — 

To  the  jasper  palace,  fair  and  warm, 
And  joy  of  the  alien's  paradise. 

Ah  !  merrily  clang  your  careless  bell, 

For  the  old  man's  soul  has  found  release ; 

He  passed  from  yonder  prison-cell, 

Through  pearly  gates,  to  eternal  peace. 


SACE1FICE. 

— 

NLY  another  wreck, 

Heart,  in  thy  silent  deep, 
Where  solemn  soul-tides  break, 
And  stare  of  memory  weep. 

7* 


78  SPRING. 

Only  another  tomb 

On  life's  dumb-beaten  shore ; 
Only  gathering  gloom 

Where  glory  flashed  before. 

A 
Only  a  dark  eclipse 

Hiding  the  sun  of  God ; 
Only  two  pallid  lips 

Pressing  the  smiter's  rod. 

Very  mute  and  cold  and  still, 
Curbing  the  restless  plaint; 

Of  firm,  undaunted  will, 
With  spirit  sore  and  faint: 

Anon  two  patient  eyes  — 

Uplifted  through  God's  grace, 

In  faith  to  morning-skies 
Lit  by  the  Saviour's  face. 


SPKING. 

JEOM  towering  height  of  glacier-dome 
Streams  a  pennon  white  of  polar  gloom 
Over  the  dun  of  the  reaching  hills, 

And  a  leaden  maze  the  chill  air  fills; 

Though  tides  flow  in  from  a  dreary  sea, 

Bearing  the  arc  of  a  spring  to  be. 


SPRING.  79 

With  weary  and  laggard  step  she  comes  — 

Trailing  the  robes  of  winter  after, 
Along  time's  checkered  isles  where  tombs 

Gleam  white  beneath  her  mocking  sceptre. 
"While  her  voic^pfcigs  out  in  sad  surprise, 
And  the  light  pales  in  her  sunny  eyes, 
As  she  views  the  earth  so  cold  and  dumb, 
Giving  no  ear  to  the  tidal  hum, 
With  its  frozen  heart  and  silent  voice, 
Though  the  sylvan  train  bids  it  rejoice  ; 
And  spirits  of  the  flowers  bygone 
Have  crossed  its  slumber  one  by  one. 
Loud  echoes  too  of  the  thunder  deep 
Have  shook  the  calms  of  its  dreamless  sleep. 
As  hushed  and  low-=-with  pallid  trace 
Of  icy  death  on  its  dun,  wan  face  — 
Lies  still,  though  floods  of  the  upper  skies 
Have  drenched  it  with  their  sudden  rise. 
Poor  planet  of  God  !  —  a  seal  of  fate 
Has  stilled  thy  pulse  of  spring  in  wait. 

Poor,  patient  flowers  under  the  mould, 
Wooed  by  one  beam  of  the  springs  of  old, 
And  light  of  sun  in  the  mazy  air; 
Ah  !  ye  would  not  lie  so  dreamless  there, 
Awed  by  the  tones  of  the  thunder  grand, 
And  thrilling  touch  of  the  lightning-wand. 

Gentle  forms  we  love  lie  hid  to-day, 
Low  as  the  fairest  flowers  of  May, 


80  FOUR    YEARS    OF   WAR. 

Waiting  the  touch  of  a  mighty  hand 
To  bid  them  rise  with  the  voiceless  band, 
In  stature  of  beauty  more  serene 
Than  our  shrouded  eyes  have  ever  seen, 
Whose  radiant-like  earth  cannot  ..hold 
Nor  dim.     Neither  flood,  nor  chill,  nor  mould, 
Nor  frozen  heart  of  the  world  beneath, 
Can  a  hope  or  heritage  bequeath 
Akin  to  the  faintest  bliss  they  know, 
Where  the  springs  immortal  come  and  go, 
With  their  living  green  and  tides  so  bright, 
Coursing  o'er  plains  of  lasting  light, 
Where  love's  sweet  flowers  of  tender  grace 
Pale  'neath  one  beam  from  the  Giver's  face. 


FOUE  YEAES  OF  WAE. 

lITHE,  gliding  swift  from  snow  to  snow  again  ; 
They  passed,  to  join  the  melancholy  train 
Of  things  that  were  and  are  not.     But  com 
pressed 

In  every  breath  an  age  of  glory  blazed  ! 
An  age  of  fear,  with  terrors  wild  amazed, 
And  world-old  tale  of  crime  ;  expired,  redressed: 
Forgiven  to  penitential  will  and  main, 
And  to  the  plunging  sacrificial  pain, 
Prolonged  from  Sumter.     There  the  stars  upon 
Our  flag  grew  dim,  and  sudden  fell  apart ! 


FOUR    YEARS   OF   WAR.  81 

And  gloom  barbaric  rushed  our  sky  athwart, 
E'en  in  the  beauty  of  our  glorious  dawn  : 
Until  our  heroes'  souls  their  light  did  pour 
Into  the  paling  stars,  and,  conquering,  won 
Them  back  to  the  blue  field  for  evermore. 

For  swift  the  bugle's  wild  and  liquid  peal, 
The  tramp  of  armies,  and  the  clash  of  steel, 
A  rayless  darkness,  and  a  quaking  earth, 
Began  the  process  of  our  perfect  birth. 

Four  years  did  then  our  banner  trail  in  blood. 

Four  years  death  o'er  the  prostrate  nation  stood, 

And  clutched  with  bony  hand  her  faltering  heart. 

Then  plucked  his  banded  skeletons — our  flowers, 

And  broke  our  hearth-stones !  taking  all  of  ours 

From  which  't  is  agony  of  soul  to  part. 

Then  every  woe  and  every  blight  befell ! 

A  chaos  wild  of  hate  !  a  carnival 

Of  murder  and  wide  ruin;  the  red  plain 

Groaning  beneath  its  hecatombs  of  slain. 

Then,  then  broke   first  the   bondman's   world-long 

chain, 

And  smiles  of  victory,  and  the  light  of  peace, 
Came  with  deliverance  from  the  Father's  face. 
No  more  we  pine,  or  grieve,  or  fear;  no  more, 
Thank  God  !  we  hear  the  thunder  crashing  fall 
Of  cities,  faint  no  more  at  human  gore. 
No  more  we  read  the  fearful  lists  of  dead, 
No  more  we  tremble  at  the  foeman's  tread. 

F 


82  IN  THE  SHADOW. 

Yet  many  wounds  our  bruised  spirits  wear, 

And  there  are  vacant  spaces  everywhere ; 

Where  mild  bereavement  holy  shrines  hath  made, 

For  patient  and  eternal  grief.     The  blade 

Which  sought  our  Chiefs  great   heart  had  others 

found  j 

And  from  pale,  dying  lips  there  came  a  sound 
Of  mortal  anguish.     Their  heroic  pain ; 
Their  loves  and  longings  for  themselves  were  vain. 
Black  robes,  white  faces,  the  sad  story  tell, 
How  they  enjoyed  not  what  they  won  so  well :  — 
Though  a  world  weeps  that  e'er  this  day  they  fell. 
They  passed  the  portal  to  God's  peace,  instead 
Of  this,  their  strong  right  arms  have  open  spread 
To  us.     Heirs  of  the  blood-bought  victory, 
Whose  sun,  uprisen,  lights  their  gory  bed. 
All  silently  they  sleep  beneath  —  while  we 
Enjoy  our  heritage  of  liberty. 


IN  THE  SHADOW. 

OME,  draw  the  curtain  softly,  little  one, 

And  lay  thy  hand  upon  my  burning  brow; 
Let  no  fierce  gleaming  of  the  winter-sun 
Fall  red  athwart  my  pensive  dreaming  now. 

Come,  dearie,  sit  beside  me  —  closer  yet; 
For  many  visions  fill  my  aching  bead 


IN  THE  S II ADO  W.  83 

Of  those  who  journeyed  with  us.     With  regret 
I  muse ;  for  some  are  changed,  and  others  dead ; 

Dead,  like  the  old  year,  in  storm,  gust,  and  chill ; 

As  the  fair,  bright-browed  summer  gone  before. 
I  hear  the  voices  whose  faint  echoes  trill 

Through  my  sad  yearning  heart  for  evermore. 

Old  winter,  too,  has  laid  him  down  to  sleep 
In  summer's  grave,  amid  sere  woodland  ways. 

I  feel  a  shiver  through  my  lattice  creep, 

Spring's  white-winged  herald  of  her  sunny  days. 

The  snow  lies  on  the  young  flowers  —  Pensee  dear, 
And  the  cold  March-sod  upon  her  breast. 

Four  summers  thou  and  I,  so  lonely  here, 
Have  lingered  on*  since  sister  went  to  rest  — 

Sleep,  dream,  in  that  bright,  far-off  home  above. 

Yet  in  our  hearts  more  palpable  has  grown 
The  semblance  of  our  angel's  deathless  love  — 

Love  for  two  pilgrims  roaming  earth  alone. 

Alone?  yes,  in  the  shadow  —  all  alone. 

The  strong  stay  failed  us  when  we  gave  our  trust ; 
The  tender  care  is  from  us,  Pensee — -flown  ; 

Affection  withered ;  and  'tis  now  but  dust. 

The  dream  is  over  —  all,  save  memory,  fled  — 
Passed,  as  the  summer  from  her  woodland  ways. 

Abroad  the  day,  with  winter-sunshine  red, 

The  sun  that  wrapped  us,  Pensee,  in  his  rays  — 


84  EVAN  CASTLE. 

So  brightly,  dearie,  in  that  long-gone  time, 
Before  it  left  us.     All  was  darkness  then. 

We  thought  the  world  was  chang'd,  and  joy's  chime 
With  thousand  voices  ne'er  would  ring  again. 

Away  with  dreaming  now,  for  weary  care 

Lies  heavily  upon  my  aching  brain. 
Yet  thy  dear  dainty  feet,  my  Pensee  fair, 

Trip  lightly  to  the  tune  of  work  or  pain. 

We  are  alone  ;  yet  strong  are  truth  and  right, 
And  we  will  help  each  other  to  the  end. 

And  One  will  help  us  whose  great  love  is  might ! 
He  aideth  those  who  have  no  nearer  friend. 

Then  put  aside  the  curtain,  Pensee  dear, 

And  let  the  broad,  bright  sunlight  of  God's  love 

Light  our  lone  way  through  earth  in  quiet  cheer, 
And  lead  us  safely  to  her  home  above. 


EVAN  CASTLE. 

JYAN  CASTLE  — old  and  gray! 
Moss-grown  where  the  bright  beams  play 

Slyly  through  the  dreamy  summer. 
Still  the  birds  sing  cheerily 
O'er  the  silent  manor-way. 

There  they  greeted  many  a  comer 


EVAN  CASTLE.  85 

To  the  ruined  homestead  old; 
For  the  lordly  swains  were  bold. 

Lady  Alice  was  so  pretty, 
Fair  as  flowers  on  the  wold ! 
Nut-brown  hair  with  hidden  gold, 

Starry  eyes  with  lashes  jetty, — 

Heaven's  own  blue !     They  closed,  alas ! 
Though  hot  tears  fell  thick  and  fast. 

Oh  !  the  drear  dark  flowing  river, 
Surging,  dashing,  driving  past ; 
While  they  took  one  kiss  —  the  last, 

And  resigned  her  to  the  Giver. 

Oh,  the  flashing  autumn-morn  ! 
Glinting  o'er  the  waving  corn, 

As  we  listen  to  the  sighing 
Of  the  wind  o'er  meadows  shorn ; 
Hear  the  huntsman's  distant  horn, 

On  his  track  crushed  flowers  lying. 

And  the  crisp  leaves  flutter  down, 
Gold  and  purple,  red  and  brown  ; 

Summer's  rainbow-tints  outvying. 
Mist  above  yon  busy  town, 
Castle-gate  with  ivy-crown, 

Drooping,  faded,  sere,  and  dying. 

Starlight  on  the  castle-floor, 
Thou  hast  nestled  here  before 

In  the  sombre  gloom  so  cheerless. 
8 


86  CASTE. 

Tfight  came  through  the  open  door. 
She  will  come  again  no  more 

Through  the  darkness  bright  and  peerless. 

Moonbeam  lying  there  so  white, 
Like  her  spirit  in  the  night; 

Pennon  of  the  lost  day's  banner  ; 
Footprint  of  the  infinite ! 
Resting  where  the  amber  light 

Faded  from  the  westland  manor. 


CASTE. 

OWN  the  unlighted  vaults  of  time's  dead  years 

the  dull  echo  of  unworded  fears  ; 
Terrors  of  thee — unvanquished  vampire — thou 
JRuler  of  worlds  !  with  bold  imperious  brow, 
And  golden  sceptre  in  thy  soft  white  hand ; 
Thy  robe  is  purple,  and  iron  thy  wand. 
Thy  tones  are  mellow  as  the  silver  words 
Of  voices  that  proclaim  thee  "lord  of  lords." 
Thy  realm  is  earthwide,  kings  thy  tools; 
Thy  dynasties  the  sporting  mart  of  fools. 

They  do  not  always  reap  who  till  the  soil, 
And  dullards  snatch  the  prize  from  hands  of  toil. 
Slothful  patrician  brows  are  laurel-prest, 
When  studious  peasant  learned  the  lesson  best. 


CASTE.  87 

And  seers  have  buried  richer  gems  unseen 

Than  those  which  crown  the  sage's  brow,  I  ween. 

Genius  must  feed  on  husks,  while  idiots  hold 

The  secret  mine  of  many  a  miser's  gold. 

Truth,  when   the  world  was   new,  was   christened 

great ; 
For  something  less  than  truth  the  ages  wait. 

The  seas  are  still  and  deep  as  human  souls  1 
Small  rivers  babble  when  their  channel-holds 
Cascade  lithe  as  a  gymnast  —  leaping  down 
Some  dark  abyss  with  avalanchine  bound, 
And  dash  of  nature's  chivalry,  anon  — 
The  eddy  sinks  in  sand,  the  wonder  's  gone. 
Though  oceans  hold  their  boast  through  countless 

years ; 
The  fall  of  empires,  and  the  people's  tears. 

Thou  hast  forged  chains  for  eagle-souls  to  wear, 

And  wedded  patient  hope  to  blank  despair. 

Hast  dwarfed  and  ruined  many  a  noble  aim, 

Strangled  the  aspirant  without  a  name, 

Whose  genius  would  have  shaken  thrones  to  reach 

The  privilege,  the  power,  the  gold  of  speech ;  — 

Whose  might  had  broken  down  a  wall  of  craft  — 

To  strike  a  tyrant  with  unerring  shaft. 

Thou  hast  polluted  court  and  church  and  state; 

Doomed  Lazarus  to  die  of  want,  at  Dives'  gate. 

Earth's  patriot-braves  are  ever  first  to  fall, 
Because  the  last  to  shrink  from  death  or  pall. 


ON  A   PORTRAIT. 

Life's  highest  honors  are  blood-bought  of  worth  ! 
Through  thee,  the  poltroon  wears  a  cloak  of  birth  — 
And  braggart  steals  the  hero's  wreath.     The  slave 
Of  base  desire  fills  oft  a  lordling's  grave. 
The  feckless  piety  unknown  to  test, 
Is  ever  voted  purity  —  the  best, 
Though  perjur'd  before  God  —  besotted  —  lost 
The  soul  in  Stygian  pools  the  body  cross'd. 
While  some  lealer  spirit  has  fallen  low 
Down  where  perdition's  black  tides  ebb  and  flow. 
Thou  too  shalt  perish  in  the  quenchless  fire, 
When  world  on  world  shall  light  God's  altar-pyre. 
With  every  false,  fair  thing  consumed  at  last, 
Thou    blasting   scourge,  thy  sleek-tongued    demon, 
Caste ! 


ON  A  POETEAIT. 

EAPT  angelic  one! 
I  love  to  gaze  upon  thy  sainted  face, 
With  features  of  inimitable  grace, 
And  contour  of  exquisite  loveliness  : 
My  beautiful,  my  own ! 

O  lips  so  ripe  and  rare! 
So  sweetly  parted,  as  if  to  say 
In  thine  own  lisping,  childish  way, 
"  Mamma,  I  love  you  all  'e  day," 

And  smile  serenely  fair. 


ON  A    PORTRAIT.  89 

O  brow  so  clear  and  high  ! 
Pure  with  white  radiance  shining  e'er, 
Shadowed  with  bright  waves  of  golden  hair; 
Whose  tints  remind  us  of  the  summers  where 

Our  loved  one's  never  die. 

More  wondrous  still  than  all  — 
Thy  gentle  eyes,  clear  shining  as  a  star, 
Whose  beams  by  love  so  sweetly  chastened  are ; 
Whose  mystic  splendor  neither  life  could  mar, 

Nor  death,  nor  grave,  nor  pall. 

Earth  was  too  drear  a  place, 
For  thee  who  wert  so  lovely,  pure,  and  good. 
Alma,  we  would  not,  even  if  we  could, 
Have  kept  thee,  darling,  from  the  angelhood. 

Behold  !  upon  thy  face  — 

The  glory  thou  dost  share. 
My  angel  on  the  earth,  now  God's  and  mine, 
Gone  with  hosts  of  the  redeemed  to  shine, 
Yet  with  radiance  never  more  divine, 

Or  shape  more  sweetly  fair, 

Than  that  which  beams  on  me, 
Wearing  the  charm  thy  living  beauty  wore  ; 
The  spirit-impress  which  it  early  bore; 
The  heav'nly  cast  thy  Saviour  sent  before 

Earnest  of  what  should  be. 
8*     - 


90  HIDDEN  AWAY. 


HIDDEN  AWAY. 

jHEKE  are  pure  beams  from  the  upper  day, 
Hidden  from  sight  in  our  forms  of  clay. 
A  glory-gleam  from  the  world  of  stars, 
Illumines  shapes  the  spirit  wears, 
Whose  chords  are  swept  by  a  hand  divine, 
Whose  flowers  lie  fadeless  on  love's  shrine. 

Though  the  world  moves  staidly  on  and  on, 
And  the  rack  of  life  be  meekly  borne, 
Its  tasks  wrought  out  with  throbbing  brain, 
Its  ascents  spanned  with  heaving  pain, 
Its  toils  endured  with  patient  grace 
That  the  flitting  days  may  leave  no  trace 
On  the  inner  life  so  deep  and  true : 
And  the  seals  remain  unbroken  too. 

Hidden  away  in  the  soul's  bright  deep, 
Where  the  fullest  tides  of  being  sleep, — 
There  are  mystic  voices,  low  and  grand  ! 
The  sweet  refrain  of  a  spirit-band ; 
The  undertones  of  the  surging  sea, 
Of  passion  bound  and  hope  set  free, 
Held  in  the  clasp  of  finite  will. 
Fathoms  down  'neath  the  surface  still, 
Dwell  the  burning  dreams  we  cannot  tell; 
Deep  in  the  heart's  dim,  silent  well. 


A    PRAYER.  91 

"We  hear  a  voice  from  the  pristine  deeps, 

Where  the  spirit's  brightest  semblance  sleeps, 

And  mystic  strains  from  the  music  sweet 

Where  the  silver  stars  and  sunbeams  meet: 

We  feel  a  pulse  in  the  waiting  heart 

Thrill  to  its  blessed  counterpart : 

The  shadowy  clasp  of  a  loving  hand 

Which  sways  our  being  at  command; 

A  spirit-touch  from  the  pure,  sweet  lips, 

Whose  tints  the  morn's  bright  hues  eclipse. 

Behold  a  flash  of  the  wild,  vain  dream, 

Whose  hallowed  sun  with  lightest  beam, 

Would  make  all  life  a  blest  reward. 

Yet  from  the  heart's  unbroken  sward, 

Earth  crushes  the  spirit's  brightest  bloom, 

'Neath  the  iron  tread  of  fate  and  doom. 

We  work  and  wait  through  life's  toilsome  night 

For  the  goal  disclosed  to  mortal  sight, 

With  the  glow  of  Eden  in  our  stars. 

For  the  moving  slow  of  crystal  bars, 

Dividing  us  from  the  world  above 

Of  the  soul's  pure  life  —  whose  law  is  love. 


A  PKAYEE. 

FATHER  I  on  thy  name  I  call, 

My  way  lies  hid  in  night ; 
And  darkness,  like  a  sombre  pall, 
Has  shut  thee  from  my  sight. 


92  ARION. 

My  path  is  bleared  with  human  tears — 
And  doubt,  and  groan,  and  cry; 

While  I,  borne  down  with  mortal  fears, 
Beg  that  this  cup  pass  by. 

The  crown  of  thorns  is  pressing  sore, 
The  sword  has  pierced  my  side  ; 

I  drag  the  cross  that  Jesus  bore; 
O  Master !  be  my  guide ; 

And  deign  to  let  thy  great  love  shine 

Upon  my  shrouded  way; 
Oh  !  may  thy  tender  eyes  divine 

Beam  on  me  while  I  pray. 

Grant  me,  dear  Lord,  the  boon  I  crave ! 

In  humbleness  I  bow 
Before  thee.     O  my  Saviour !  save 

Me  —  or  I  perish  now. 


ARION. 

HERE  my  love-star  sank  in  gloom, 

High,  bright  gates  of  morning  loom. 
Memory  lights  affection's  tomb 
"When  anew  the  lilacs  bloom. 


ARION.  93 

Flowers  spring  on  gilded  plains. 

Bounds  the  life-tide  through  my  veins  1 
Melts  the  past  in  tearful  rains, 

Musing  of  the  rosy  chains  — 

Woven  in  the  long-ago. 

But  the  glory  faded  slow, 
In  a  spring  whose  crystal  flow 

Broke  in  murmurs  soft  and  low  — 

O'er  the  path  we  jointly  trod  ! 

Greenly  grows  the  April-sod. 
Spirit  bowing  'neath  his  rod, 

Mounts  the  starry  way  to  God. 

Footprints  'neath  a  desert  sun, 

Where  no  crystal  rivers  run  ; 
Over  meadows  crisp  and  dun, 

Lies  my  life-track,  Arion. 

Other  springs,  their  glories  shine, 
Flower  and  garland,  bower  and  vine. 

While  their  low  winds  wail  and  pine, 
Thinkest  thou  of  me  and  mine? 

In  thy  altered  fate  and  way, 

Wheresoe'er  thy  feet  may  stray; 

Whether  'mid  the  grave  or  gay, 
Wilt  thou  live  again  the  day  — 

When  my  young  heart  gave  to  thee 
All  its  wealth  and  melody. 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS. 

Oh  !  the  songs  we  sung  in  glee, 
Sitting  'neath  the  gilead-tree. 

Warming  meadows,  crisp  and  dun, 
Golden  gloams  the  west'ring  sun 

When  the  far,  bright  goal  is  won, 
I  shall  meet  thee,  Arion. 


LIGHT  AND  DABKNESS. 

II,  there  are  hours  in  which  we  live  a  life 
So  fleeting  and  yet  so  intense,  it  seems 
As  if  an  age  had  crept  into  the  span  : 
Belting  the  brief,  bright  space  with  messages, 
That  fell  upon  the  thirsty  soul  like  dew 
On  flowers  crisp,  or  raindrops  crystal-clear — 
Upon  the  arid  deserts  of  our  way. 

Oh  !  there  are  dreams  —  too  holy,  too  divine 

For  even  dreams  to  be  in  this  cold  sphere 

Of  withering  reality.     Must  we, 

Then,  lay  our  lips  in  dust  and  humbly  say, 

"I'll  try  to  trust"  —  though  blindly,  prayerlessly. 

"Let  this  go  by.     My  God,  oh,  strengthen  me 

To  learn  that  lesson  conned  by  sons  of  men, 

Of  faith  so  sweet,  and  yet  so  hardly  won  — 

'  Thy  everlasting  will  —  not  mine  —  be  done.' " 


LIGHT  AND  DARKNESS.  95 

Oh,  there  are  moments  when  the  holy  calm 
Of  some  tried  spirit  wafts  its  toil-won  peace 
Over  the  barren  wastes  of  some  poor  heart 
That  hungered,  thirsted,  yet  strove  in  vain, 
Fainting  'neath  scorching  suns,  to  purge  and  bless, 
Like  palm  and  oasis  of  living  green  ; 
And  fruits  of  righteousness,  above  the  pass 
'Twixt  effort  and  achievement;  tempting  him 
To  one  last  effort  for  the  goal  that  lies 
Anear  to  heav'n  and  immortality. 

There  is  a  madness,  subtle  and  intense, 

As  the  wild  delirium  of  brain  or  sense  — 

A  fantasy  of  soul  —  a  reaching  vain 

Of  spirit- wings  aloft  —  a  wordless  pain  — 

A  rack  of  torture,  and  a  cry  for  light, 

Seeking  in  Lethe's  maze  a  gloom  made  bright. 

Oh  !  I  have  traced,  on  many  a  human  face, 
The  majesty  of  truth  denied  —  and  faith, 
And  all  the  grace  of  higher  things  !  and  hope 
Wrecked  ne'er  on  mortal  sea  of  blinding  tears. 
Bright  shapes,  though  clad  in  sombre  hue,  were  near, 
As  if  to  guard  and  cherish  such,  though  life 
Wore  but  the  simple  guise  of  duty  done. 

Life  once  had  been  to  them  a  struggle  rife 
With  passion-haunted  dreams,  and  hours 
Of  waking,  when  they  strove  and  strove  in  vain  ; 
To  fail  and  fail  again — as  though  the  scale 
Were  held  by  hand  of  demon  or  of  ghoul; 


96  LIGHT  AND   DARKNESS. 

As  if  each  day  held  only  other  tests 

Of  strength  that  could  but  fail,  and  hope 

That  ever  paled  in  the  vain  search  for  rest. 

Eest! — vain,  delusive  word!     "Who,  though  his  soul 

Were  lifted  high  above  the  plains  we  press, 

Can  say,  until  the  race  is  run,  and  time, 

As  now,  has  ceased  to  be,  "  I have  found  rest"  ? 

Yet  with  this  never-ending  rack  and  round, 
And  routine  unto  which  we're  darkly  bound; 
Are  there  not  some  things  nobler,  better  far 
Thau  useless  drifting  with  the  surging  tide, 
Or  steerless  floating  on  an  ocean  wide 
Of  mortal  life,  immortal  destiny? 

Dare  we  lay  idols  broken  and  despoiled, 

By  sinful  touch  profaned,  upon  a  shrine  — 

Worthy  alone  of  purest  homage  ?     God's  love 

No  longer  shines  upon  us,  though  we  weep 

And  lose  our  way  amid  the  starless  maze 

Of  shoreless  dark,  upon  an  unknown  sea : 

If  we  have  ceased  to  supplicate  for  light !  t 

The  glory  of  the  everlasting  sun 

Of  righteousness  by  faith  and  prayer  won. 


NEVERMORE.  97 


NEVEEMOEE. 

school-time  is  done  ! 
A  new  life  has  begun, 
With  bright  hopes  and  dark  fears 
For  the  swift  coming  years : 
Free  from  tears  — 
Nevermore. 

The  parting  has  come ! 
Each  will  go  to  her  home, 
Other  loved  ones  to  greet, 
And  perchance  we  shall  meet 
Here  again 
Nevermore. 

The  old  bell  shall  peal 
For  our  woe  or  our  weal ; 
Like  a  voice  from  abdve, 
Breathing  sadness  or  love : 
Still  for  us 
Nevermore. 

Ah  !  happy  mates,  when 
We  are  women  and  men  ; 
With  the  harrowing  cares 
That  maturity  bears, 
And  are  gay 

Nevermore ! 
9  G 


98  NEVERMORE. 

"When  years  have  gone  by, 
We  will  tell  with  a  sigh, 
Of  the  hearts  that  grow  cold  — 
And  their  love-treasures  hold 
"As  of  old/' 
Nevermore. 

Each  still  summer-morn 
We  '11  recall  what  is  gone  ; 
And  the  faces  divine, 
Making  other  days  shine 
That  will  shine 
Nevermore. 

And  autumn  will  moan 
O'er  the  days  that  are  flown  ; 
And  the  waves  on  the  shore, 
Breaking  gayly  before, 
Will  repeat, 
"  Nevermore." 

In  summers  to  come ! 
May  we  meet  in  God's  home  — 
Teachers,  pupils,  and  friends, 
"Where  the  term  never  ends. 
There  to  part  — 
Nevermore. 


WILLIE  LEE.  99 


WILLIE  LEE. 

WIFT   coursing  through  Eden,  a  dark  river 

ran, 
^  Blighting    love -flowers    that    grew    on    its 

beautiful    strand, 

As  it  swept  on  and  on  to  the  port  that  we  see, 
"Where  Christ  anchored  the  bark  of  our  fair  Willie 

Lee; 
When  we  laid  his  dear  form  'neath  the  willows  to 

rest, 
And  his  soul  tried  its  wings  in  a  realm  of  the  blest. 

Mother's  heart  was  his  pillow,  when  roses  were  new, 
And  the  sweet  meadow-lilies  oped  petals  of  blue. 
But  the  daisies  are  faded,  the  grasses  grown  sere 
On  the  footprints  of  spring-time,  since  Willie  was 

here. 

Oh !  the  sun  of  September  shines  mournfully  now, 
The  dust  of  the  valley  has  kissed  his  bright  brow. 

The  golden-haired  pet  of  the  household  was  he; 
Ah !  the  fairest  and  brightest,  our  dear  Willie  Lee. 
There  are  lines  growing  deep  on  the  kind  father's 

brow. 

And  the  mother !  her  heart  is  sore  broken  now. 
At  morning,  at  noontime,  at  evening,  at  night, 
She  will  miss  what  September  has  hid  from  her  sight. 


100  IN  MEMORIAM. 

She  will  hear  the  waves  murmur  that  bore  him  away. 
Praying  e'er  for  the  light  of  the  beautiful  day — 
That  is  his  —  on  her  path :  and  will  tearfully  keep 
Tireless  watch  through  the  night  on  the  shore  where 

we  weep. 

Till  the  fanes  of  the  Lord  shall  rise  from  the  deep, 
And  she  rests  where  they  laid  Willie  Lee  down  to 

sleep. 


IK  MEMOEIAM. 

H !  would  that  any  little  word  of  mine, 
Could  still  your  craving  vain, 
Or  give  the  treasur'd  shape,  for  which  you 

pine, 
To  your  fond  arms  again;  — 

Or  wake  the  tender  tones  that  now  are  still, 

Whose  music  low  and  deep, 
Was  soft  and  witching  as  a  summer  rill, 

That  sings  itself  to  sleep. 

Then  were  it  well  to  speak;  but  now,  oh,  no ! 

The  footprints  are  yet  warm, 
Your  dear  one  left  upon  the  world  below, 

And  passed  beyond  the  storm. 


THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILOQUY.    101 

Yet  with  caressing  lingers  ever  here, 

With  timid  heart  so  fond ; 
And  that  loved  face  is  shining  sweetly  near, 

The  border  line  beyond. 

But  I  can  tell  you  how  I  feel  your  pain, 

And  hold  your  sorrow  mine  ; 
And  breathe  a  hope  that  you  may  clasp  again. 

That  spirit  form  —  divine, — 

Beyond  the  confines  of  this  weary  earth, — 

Beyond  death's  rolling  tide  : 
Within  the  area  of  immortal  birth, 

Where  fate  nor  woe  divide,  — 

Us  from  the  shapes  we  wildly  worship  still, 

E'en  while  we  kiss  the  rod, 
And  bow  before  the  everlasting  will 

Of  an  all-gracious  God. 


THE  FEMALE  PHAEISEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

H,  once  I  loved  you,  poor,  unhappy  friend  ! 
Now,  though  you  need  me,  I  abandon  you. 
My  course  and  policy  I  must  defend, — 
The  autocratic  world  has  censured  you. 

9* 


102    THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  S 0 L IL  0  Q  UY. 

It  failed  to  understand  you ;  hence  it  blamed. 

'T  is  easy  to  conceive  a  wrong,  we  know ; 
'T  is  right  to  turn  away  from  one  defamed 

By  the  most  blighting  curse  that  follows  woe. 

True,  we  have  some  attributes  in  common  — 
A  kindred  love  and  pride,  to  which  we  bow. 

Though  I  am  saintly  —  you  are  only  woman; 
And  God  has  made  me  "  holier  than  thou." 

Scourged  by  life's  sorry  ailments.  I  was  born 
To  wear  pure  vestments,  and  ignore  the  stain 

Of  what  would  make  me  "  nervous;"  though  the  scorn 
I  feel  for  you.  is  greater  than  my  pain. 

My  heart  is  tender — swift  to  know  a  wrong; 

Your  waywardness  afflicts  me  as  a  blow. 
Why  will  you  shock  me,  when  you  should  be  strong 

To  bear  the  burden  that  is  crushing  slow? 

My  narrow  sphere  is  kindly  made  for  me, 
By  loving  hands  as  sunny  as  the  May. 

Your  desert  is  world-wide  —  a  upas-tree 
Has  cast  its  shadows  on  the  weary  way. 

Each  want  anticipated  ere  I  call  — 

'T  is  given  me  to  dream  the  summer  through. 

Your  task  it  is  to  strive  ;  and,  rise  or  fall, 
'T  is  easier  to  doubt  you  than  be  true. 

Here,  in  the  sunlight  of  my  happy  home, 
I  coldly  scan  your  poverty  and  pain. 


THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILO  QUY.     103 

I  shar'd  your  brighter  days ;  yet  have  you  come 
To  see  life's  harvest  ripen  —  fall  —  in  vain. 

I  turn  away  in  doubt,  and  wrap  around 
My  form  the  stainless  vesture  of  my  pride. 

I  'm  forced  to  "  cut "  you,  as  in  "  duty  bound," 
I  wear  a  symbol  of  the  justified. 

What  matter  though  your  feet  are  bleeding,  sore, 
Blistered,  galled  with  arid,  burning  sands ; 

True,  I  might  bathe  them,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
And  bind  your  broken  heart  with  kindly  hands. 

One  word  would  take  the  envenom'd  sting 
Of  keen  injustice  which  your  spirit  cow'd, 

And  from  love's  fount  sweet  compensation  bring. 
A  God  on  earth  beneath  your  weight  was  bow'd. 

He  knew  the  way  and  warfare  would  be  hard. 

"  Judge  not,"  he  said,  "  but  I  command  ye,  love  • 
One  another."     Yet  for  this  you  're  barred 

From  e'en  the  hope  of  bliss  with  Christ  above. 

How  "  Jesus  wept "  when  at  the  grave  of  friend 
He  saw  the  death-cold  body  hid  away; 

Praying  the  Father  might  his  Spirit  send 
To  light  anew  the  temple  of  its  clay. 

I  cannot  weep,  though  I  have  seen  you  crave 
Some  recognition  of  the  far,  bright  past. 

'  Twas  G-odlike  to  forgive  ;  yet  Heaven  defend 
Me  from  such  weakness,  saintly  to  the  last. 


104  THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

You  trailed  your  drapery  through  the  dusty  street, 
Where  sin  ran  riot  in  the  noonday's  light. 

I  turn  my  back  upon  you  when  we  meet  — 
I  shut  your  phantom  out  into  the  night. 

Why  has  God  set  you  homeless  in  his  dark, 
If  you  was  wTorthy  to  enjoy  my  light? 

There  is  a  rendezvous  for  paupers — work  ! 

You  must  be  strong,  though  you  look  worn  and 
white. 

The  winds,  like  flaming  voices  round  you  howl! 

Is  there  no  murmur  on  your  faded  lip  ? 
Your  face  with  want  is  seamed,  yet  wears  no  scowl ; 

Despair  has  clutched  you  with  a  bony  grip, 

That  leaves  you  wordless  !  Can  an  outcast  pray, 

Stricken  and  cold  within  homelit  street  ? 
Ah!  there  is  supplication  in  the  gray 
*  Shade  on  your  face,  and  in  the  look  I  meet. 

Once,  long  ago,  you  prayed  for  me,  when  ill, 

You  watched  beside,  I  thought  your  faith  so  sweet. 

The  pleading  earnestness  was  proudly  still 
When  I  denied  you  in  the  crowded  street. 

Your  eyes  were  dim  and  stony  !  though  a  light 
Seemed  breaking  through  the  fixed  and  rigid  stare, 

Which  said  :  "  Do  you  forsake  me  ?  "  then  the  night 
Closed  round  more  solemn  when  I  left  you  there. 


THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILOQUY.     105 

Though  in  my  inmost  soul  I  could  not  doubt ; 

Stricken  you  were,  but  pure  I  must  believe ; 
Though  there  are  none  to  search  tbe  problem  out, 

A  sullied  reputation  to  retrieve. 

Yet  if  you,  scourged,  are  sinless,  what  am  I, 
With  home  and  hopes  to  make  me  better  still? 

Your  judge,  censor,  executioner.     Why 
Reverse  the  verdict  of  imperious  will. 

In  my  prolonged  and  ceaseless  struggle  rife 
With  physical,  exhausting  pain  —  I  thought 

It  easier  to  strive  with  life  than  for  life. 

God's  clemency  is  free!  while  man's  is  bought. 

And  then  there  is  such  proneness  in  the  race, 
To  trample  down  a  soul  with  wrong  assailed. 

There  is  yet  majesty  in  that  wan  face, 

I  dare  not  gaze  on,  't  is  the  truth  unveiled. 

To  your  proud  spirit  blighting  was  my  doubt: 
A  blow  —  a  clinging  curse  to  bow  you  down; 

Surer  than  destiny  which  shuts  you  out 

From  happiness,  from  fortune,  and  renown  ;  — 

All  that  you  bravely  strove  in  vain  to  win  ! 

Compelled  the  wild  hope  to  abandon  where 
You  were  bewildered  with  the  varying  din 

And  hush,  and  after  numbness  of  despair. 

Ah,  well,  you  go  your  way ;  I  '11  cling  to  mine  ! 
Intrenched  and  happy,  lend  no  helping  hand    ' 


106   THE  FEMALE  PHARISEE'S  SOLILOQUY. 

To  rescue  those  who,  maim'd,  or  halt,  or  blind, 
Are  cast  by  fate's  cold  surges  on  time's  strand ;  — 

While  over  ocean-waters  warm  and  wide, 
I  ride  the  highest  waves  that  ebb  and  flow. 

Counting  mad  pulses  of  the  storms  —  inside 

Life's  freighted  frigate,  where  the  heart-lights  glow. 

Mayhap  you  '11  starve  or  die,  for  aught  I  care : 
I  'm  not  responsible.     How  the  winds  shriek  ! 

The  stars  burn  fainter  in  the  gaslight's  glare, 
The  air  is  dim  with  swaying  spectres  bleak. 

"Was  that  a  moan,  or  groan?    It  could  not  be 

That  haunting  look  upon  your  face  meant  death ! 

Hark !  hark !     "  0  Lord,  have  mercy  upon  me !  " 
She's  dead  !  dead  on  the  threshold  of  my  wealth. 


Deny  no  longer  I  the  outcast  now ; 

She  so  transformed  with  death's  restoring  touch. 
The  majesty  of  peace  is  on  her  brow, 

The  impress  of  a  love  that  suffered  much :  — 

Was  tortur'd  grievously  with  doubt  and  pain ! 

E'en  betrayed  in  trusting  to  the  last. 
And  yet  that  pale,  calm  sleeping  shows  no  stain 

Of  way  or  warfare  in  the  conflict  passed. 

Who  of  her  censoi's  now  would  sooner  die, 
Than  take  the  wages  of  the  world  ;  or  bow 

Before  want's  dread  necessities?  Not  I  — 
Untried  can  say  —  "  I  'm  holier  than  thou." 


FIFTEENTH  KENTUCKY  INFANTRY.      107 

Yet  holier  than  thou  the  world  esteemed 
Many  who  knew  not  your  heroic  rise. 

Poor  dead!  unclaimed  —  unworthy  deemed. 
Was  God  ashamed  to  shelter  with  his  skies  ? 

His  was  the  love  you  found  when  all  was  lost, 
And  his  the  voice  that  bade  you  struggle  ou 

To  victory.     He  held  the  wave  you  crossed, 
And  cradled  you  in  peace,  the  battle  won. 

Oh  !  not  too  holy  thou  —  great  God  of  all, 
Thou  heart  of  love  —  deliverer  from  sin  ! 

To  hear  repentant  sinners  when  they  call 
To  thee,  "  'tis  sweet  to  let  the  pardoned  in." 


FIFTEENTH  KENTUCKY  INFANTRY. 

'S  a  rise  and  fall  as  of  many  feet, 
the  muffled  sound  of  the  victor's  drum; 
A  veteran  throng  in  the  morning  street ; 
The  Fifteenth  returning  home  ! 

True  souls,  amid  anguished  reaches  dim, 
Ye  have  threaded  a  sacrifice  profound, 
"While  the  torch  of  hope  burned  red  and  dim 
Afar  on  the  slaughter-ground. 

It  is  fearful  to  view  those  ranks  again  — 
So  wasted,  and  think  of  another  day ; 


108  LITTLE  PAUL. 

And  the  many  who  come  not  back  again, 
Though  a  thousand  went  away. 

They  were  thinned  and  scourged,  yet  cut  their  way ; 

With  nerveless  hands  won  the  victor's  crown, 
And  planted  the  standard  of  liberty  — 

Where  the  good  and  brave  went  down. 

"While  we  bid  thee,  patriots,  welcome  home, 

We  mourn  for  the  valiant  spirits  fled, 
Who  passed  from  the  battle's  gory  gloom 
To  bivouac  with  the  dead. 

Though  our  gleaming  banner  streams  on  high, 

With  the  starry  wealth  of  other  years, 
There 's  blood  on  its  folds !  —  and  the  nation's  sky 
Is  dark  with  the  mist  of  tears. 


LITTLE  PAUL. 

WAS  night  o'er  the  world,  yet  morning-bells 

Chimed  high  in  heaven's  cupola  — 
The  gleaming  tips  of  the  asphodels, 
Where  fruits  of  life  immortal  grow  — 

The  "bridge  of  flowers"  o'er  which  he  came, 
The  "  starry  way  "  o'er  which  he  passed. 

All  these  I  saw  in  a  troubled  dream  — 
Then  woke  to  the  vacant  space,  alas ! 


LITTLE  PA  UL.  109 

And  the  sunless  day,  so  bleak  and  cold, 
With  a  mist  of  hot  tears  gloaming  o'er 

The  tiny  tracks  on  the  summer-mould, 
Awoke,  to  hear  his  voice  no  more. 

Cold  are  the  lips  we  kissed  at  will, 
And  the  baby-hands  are  folded,  still, 
On  the  little  pulseless  heart.     Those  eyes, 
Vague  with  splendors  of  paradise, 

Are  closed.    There  are  heads  low-bowed, 
And  a  "  bridge  of  flowers  "  hid  with  snow; 

And  the  flaming  white  of  a  tiny  shroud 
Lies  over  the  "  starry  way/'  we  know. 

But  there 's  a  name  on  yon  jasper  wall  — 
Kind  hands  outstretched  to  welcome  Paul ; 
And  his  baby-face  is  glowing  bright, 
In  God's  temple  of  eternal  light. 

That  Father's  smiting  was  rich  with  joy 
And  promise.     "  Of  such  my  kingdom"  fair, 

"  Let  them  come  to  me."     Resign  thy  boy 
To  the  Christ  of  little  children  there. 
10 


HO  THE  DEAD  LO  VE. 


THE  DEAD  LOVE. 

lIFTLNG  its  spirit  to  God  everywhere 

With  pure  trust. 

Bending  its  brow,  the  earth-fetters  to  wear, 
Deigning  its  exquisite  blisses  to  share. 
Stricken  to-day,  lying  peerless  and  fair  — 
Low  in  the  dust. 

Its  beautiful  life  —  vanished  and  gone. 

Ah !  we  know, 

It  came  with  the  rosiest  tints  of  the  dawn, 
Seeking  far  vistas  of  earth  to  adorn ; 
Faded  as  flush  from  the  face  of  the  morn, — 

Stilly  and  slow. 

A  shape  that  was  lovely :  lay  it  to  rest, 

'Neatb  the  sod, 

With  hands  mutely  folded  on  the  still  breast, 
Knowing  how  true  lips  the  dead  ones  have  pressed, 
Trembling  and  pallid  with  inward  unrest, — 

Kissing  the  rod 

Of  God's  chastening.     A  grief-stricken  trill, 

Rife  with  woe, 

Euns  the  sacrifice  through.     Fate's  measure  fill 
From  a  living  heart  broken,  never  to  thrill 
To  the  dead  one  lying,  icy  and  still, — 

Buried  low. 


DAISY-TIME.  Ill 

'Twas  May — 'tis  midwinter.     Into  life's  gray 

Dips  the  sun. 

Near  a  still,  white  corpse  of  the  past  alway, 
E'er  lingers  a  mourner,  kneeling  to  pray, 
Striving  to  teach  her  poor  lips  how  to  say  — 

"  Thy  will  be  done." 


DAISY-TIME. 

ITH  strange  sweet  tides  our  hearts  run  over, 

And  joyous  fulness  almost  pain. 
O'er  meadows  crisp  of  faded  clover, 
We  cross  to  vistas  of  youth  again, — 

'Mid  hawthorns  wearing  their  icy  garlands  — 

Flashing  stars  in  the  air  so  still. 
The  snow-bird's  pipe  to  the  eagle  soaring 

Beyond  the  range  of  their  low,  soft  trill. 

The  spring  lies  locked  in  dreamful  wonder, 

Fast  asleep  in  the  April-cold  : 
With  the  wealth  of  many  seasons  under, 

The  calm  expanse  of  silent  mould. 


112  PAST. 


PAST. 

EEE  winds  of  winter  are  wailing  low 
O'er  tombs  of  summers  under  the  snow; 
O'er  whose  pallid  reach  the  sunbeams  lie, 
We  dream  of  hours  that  are  long  gone  by. 

A  school-time,  merry  and  far  away, 
And  tasks  filling  each  gleesome  day ; 
Life's  daisy-dotted  spring  was  fair, 
Its  halo  in  the  April-air. 

Daisies  gemm'd  the  grass  in  shady  nooks, 
They  were  pressed  between  the  leaves  of  books : 
And  rippled  the  waves  of  golden  hair. 
Daisies  and  sunshine  were  everywhere. 

We  wove  bright  wreaths  on  the  smiling  green; 
And  there  were  none  fairer  ever  seen 
Than  the  crowns  we  made  of  pure  white  sprays, 
With  calm  of  peace  in  the  golden  days. 


PRESENT.  H3 


PEESENT. 

TUEN  to  that  bygone  season  mild, 
And  sigh  for  the  merry-hearted  child 
Who  carolled  'mid  its  sands  as  free, 
As  birds  on  the  wing  of  minstrelsy. 

There 's  a  frail  form  on  a  desert  strand, 
Threading  lonely  ways  at  fate's  command : 
Through  the  earth's  wide  wastes! — eternity, 
Will  the  border-land  of  sorrow  be. 

Then  I  think  of  the  form  so  prized, 
With  his  lofty  mien  and  starry  eyes  ; 
And  the  bright  hours  of  a  sunny  May, 
When  her  young  head  on  his  bosom  lay. 

I  hear  no  chant  of  the  summer  gone ! 
Its  glory  paled,  its  foliage  strown. 
His  heart  is  so  cold  and  far  away, 
It  hears  not  the  wail  from  hers  to-day  — 

Nor  sorrows  —  though  many  heedless  feet 
Trample  her  soul  in  the  sad  life-beat. 
The  faltering  pace  —  the  lonely  ways, 
Of  a  loveless  woman's  aimless  days. 

The  home  made  bright  as  the  smile  of  God, 
With  faces  under  the  April-sod. 
10*  H 


14  FUTURE. 

The  first  that  died,  and  the  grave  we  made, 
Now  nestled  close  'neath  the  gilead-shade. 

And  the  angel-guest  of  Christmas-time, 
He  loved  her  with  a  love  sublime ! 
Yet  her  life,  too,  the  Saviour  claimed, 
One  chill  March-day  ere  the  daisies  came. 

When  spring-dews  glistened  as  of  old, 
And  the  May  sun  shed  its  molten  gold 
O'er  wavy  meadows  —  her  summer-time 
Had  blossomed  in  a  brighter  clime. 

Time,  by  the  links  of  our  hopes  and  fears, 
Drags  the  iron  chain  of  weary  years ; 
From  whose  care-stain'd  brow  the  fairy-crown, 
By  a  hand  beloved  was  stricken  down. 

Though  the  seasons  swiftly  come  and  go, 
Daisies  we  love  lie  under  the  snow. 
The  home-light  pal'd  —  and  a  stranger's  face 
Lights  by-gone  scenes  in  the  first  love's  place. 


FUTUBE. 

daisies  with  dew-drops  all  ablaze, 
In  the  starry  gleam  of  other  days, 
Will  flash  in  radiance,  when  we  stand 
By  the  judgment-bar,  at  God's  command. 


HILLS   OF  MATSVILLE.  115 

Then  each  shall  know  how  much  was  lost, 
In  that  reckoning  long  —  the  fearful  cost. 
If  the  pearls  of  love  thus  cast  away, 
Will  gem  the  brow  of  the  coming  day ; 

Whose  night  hangs  over  our  mortal  sky  — 
When  life's  freighted  ships  at  anchor  lie, 
On  the  river  death,  which  stretches  wide 
Its  sullen  waves !     On  the  farther  side, 

Bright  doors  of  spring-time  open  stand ! 
A  glory  gleams  on  the  golden  strand  ; 
And  the  daisies  blossom  fadeless  there, 
In  the  pearly  sheen  of  upper  air. 


HILLS  OF  MAYSVILLE. 

CHANGELESS,  changeless  hills  I 
Though  motionless  and  still, 
Ye  stand  beneath  your  sheet, 

Of  crustless,  clinging  snow. 

Great  hills,  I  love  you  so ! 

Old  friends,  ye  were  mine  own  ; 

M}T  dearest,  earliest  known. 

The  brightest  promise-bow  — 

My  sky  has  ever  bless'd, 

Spann'd  thy  expanse  —  and  best 

Of  hopes  grew  on  thy  crest. 


116  HILLS   OF  MAYSVILLE. 

Now  as  thine  own  my  heart  is  cold, 

'Neath  frozen  cover  —  hills  of  old. 

My  years  like  winter  ripple  on  ; 

Though  changeless  stand  ye —  much  is  gone. 

The  echoes  of  the  tones  lov'd  most, 

Eemain  of  all  that  summer's  boast. 

0  prayerless,  prayerless  hills  ! 
My  soul  its  voice  of  worship  stills, 
To  see  you  look  so  stern  and  grand  — 
Lapp'd  close  beneath  the  mighty  hand, 
That  smote,  and  smote  ye  where  you  stand. 
From  age  to  age  your  summits  rise 

Still  changeless  to  the  changeful  skies. 

1  am  so  awed  as  with  my  gaze, 

On  your  vast  reaches,  —  hidden  ways 

With  gloom  more  sombre  skirt  my  days. 

It  seems  so  strange  to  see  you  so ; 

Dead  giants  shrouded  with  the  snow. 

Whose  record  pure  my  heart  has  read, 

On  glacier-stone  at  foot  and  head. 

God  clothed  ye  once  with  verdure,  and  his  voice 

In  lost  love's  human  tones,  bids  me  rejoice. 
He  is  my  stay  and  strength  forever  true, 
All  changeless  —  changeless  like  to  you 
Great  hills  'neath  heaven's  arching  blue. 

O  heart,  what  fate  can  ever  shut  from  thee 
The  radiance  of  this  great  infinity ! 
O  hills,  what  snows  of  time  can  blight  your  crest, 
Locked  in  the  slumbers  of  eternal  rest ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT.  117 


THE  MOTHEK'S  LAMENT. 


is  it,  darling  mother  ?     There's  a  shadow 
on  your  brow, 
And  to  all  our  merry  sallies  your  voice  is  silent 

now. 
The  Christmas-hearth  grows  red,  while  the  ruby  wine 

is  poured  ; 

There  are  smiles  upon  the  faces  you  love,  around  the 
board. 

My  child,  far  o'er  the  eastern  hills  the  morn  is  break 

ing  cold, 
Around  their  towering  crags  and  trees  that  shiver, 

gray  and  old. 
On  bleak  meadows,  where  in  spring  bright  flowers  are 

wont  to  grow, 
Dark  spirits  of  the  storm  have  left  their  silver  tracks 

of  snow. 

And  the  bare,  crisp  lowlands,  dearie,  look  as  they  did 

one  day  ; 
And  winter-thistles  lift  their  heads  from    out    the 

frozen  clay  — 
Just  as  upon  t  hat  morning  ;  and  the  wind's  sigh  of 

unrest 
Seems   but  the  sob   of  sorrow   hushed  within  my 

lonely  breast, 


118  THE  MOTHER'S  LAMENT. 

Where  a  golden  head  was  lying  all  through  the  sum 
mer  long, 

While  bright-winged  warblers  carolled  merry  peals 
of  song. 

But  the  season  with  its  flowers,  as  that  spirit,  passed 
away; 

Doomed  was  the  temple  of  our  hearts  to  slow  and 
sure  decay. 

Though  many  a  Christmas  morning  has  broken  o'er 

the  steeps 
'Yond  which  he  passed,  I'll  ne'er  forget  the  little  one, 

who  sleeps 

With  a  smile  upon  the  baby-face  we  buried  long  ago, 
And  the  roses  on  the  waxen  cheeks,  now  lying 'neath 

the  snow. 

It  was  a  glance  far  brighter  than  the  limpid  shaft  of 

dawn 
Which  pierced  the  jasper  battlements  of  everlasting 

morn. 
There 's  a  voice  whose  tones  are  sweet  as  notes  of 

the  redeemed, 
And  a  step  like  winter-fairy's  on  the  meadow  and  the 

stream. 

He  joins  the  Christmas  matinee,  kneels  at  the  Sa 
viour's  feet, 

With  a  halo  on  his  pure  white  brow,  his  hands  in 
rapture  meet. 


A  SONNET.  119 

The  tiny  hands  we  pressed,  and  the  brow  caressed 

at  will. 
Oh,  our  baby,  though  an  angel  now,  is  our  baby  still. 

Through  God  the  Christ,  our  Saviour  —  He  who  died 
that  we  might  live  : 

He  took  our  treasure  from  us,  a  more  precious  boon 
to  give  — 

This  hope  —  that' when  all  seasons  with  their  bright 
est  treasures  pale, 

"We  may  claim  a  life  immortal  beyond  the  sunset  vale. 


A  SONNET. 

EAREB  and  nearer,"  the  cold  drops  say. 
"Nearer  the  end  of  the  toilsome  way. 
Nearer  the  point  where  the  strife  shall  ceasv 
Nearer  the  plains  of  the  perfect  peace. 
Nearer  the  harvest  of  time's  great  loss ! 
Nearer  the  pass  where  the  two  roads  cross. 
One  leading  up  to  the  spirit's  arc; 
One  bearing  down  through  the  unknown  dark, 
Through  the  valley  of  shadows  cold  and  gray, 
Till  they  blend  anew  in  the  upper  day. 
Nearer  the  close  of  the  waiting  night: 
Nearer  the  morn  in  whose  glorious  light 
Two  souls  life's  current  shall  mingle  free 
In  a  tide  of  exultant  ecstasy." 


120  "THE  BLUE  AND    THE   GRAY. 


MAGGIE  EAYMOND. 

SONNET. 

tells  us  of  a  "  bridge  of  flowers," 
By  which  come  cherubs  to  this  world  of  ours. 
Bright  spirits  from  the  higher  realm  of  bliss, 
Adown  the  starry  stairway  unto  this. 
All  tremblingly  thy  untaught  baby-feet, 
Which  very  lightly  pressed  the  golden  street, 
Came  slowly  o'er  the  narrow  strait  between 
The  lower  world  and  that  bright  land  unseen. 
And  from  thy  beauteous  face  so  pure  and  fair 
Looks  forth  the  angel  that  was  missed  up  there, 
When  thou  wert  found  upon  the  home-bound  track, 
Astray,  till  mother-arms  should  bear  thee  back. 
Thou,  tiny  messenger,  to  her  wast  given 
To  make  the  way  more  clear  from  earth  to  heaven. 


«  THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GEAY.' 


our  land  a  dark  current  is  welling ! 
Its  cliff-ridden  banks  are  o'erflown 
With  fierce  tides  that  are  madly  repelling 
The  check  which  their  calmness  doth  own. 
Stretching  on  to  the  locks  of  a  haven 
Where  lieth  a  vessel  in  wait ; 


"THE  BLUE  AND   THE  GRAY."  121 

Though  her  crew  are  not  coward  or  craven, 
They  wear  the  steel  armor  of  hate. 

Hear  them  sing  of  disunion!  that  band, 
Though  unable  to  drift  or  to  stand 
'Neath  the  blight  of  a  curse  on  the  land. 

"  Oh,  thou  tides  slow  and  wide, 
Which  our  sections  divide ! 
Ye  are  fordless,  and  deep 
As  the  waters  that  sleep 
In  the  caves  of  the  sea." 

Answer  sprite,  risen  free 

From  serfdom  and  thrall  : 

"  O  thou  God  over  all ! 

Who  hast  cleft  a  strong  chain 

Of  the  ages  in  twain ; 

Thy  bright  crown  lieth  light 

On  the  brow  of  the  right." 

Yet  that  crew  are  dumb  to  the  siren, 

Who  chanteth  her  liquid  refrain. 
Shrill  voices  cry —  "  Give  back  the  iron 

And  steel  of  that  lengthening  chain! 
Let  it  enter  the  soul,  and  environ 

The  slave  with  his  bondage  again." 

Then  the  waves  gave  for  answer  —  "No, never! 
The  Master  hath  broken  their  chain ; 
And  his  edict  for  ever  and  ever, 
Will  peal  through  the  ages  amain." 
11 


122  RECOMPENSE. 


TO  MES.  S.  V.,  OF  PHILADELPHIA. 


and  gentle,  tender,  kind,  and  true  ! 
Thine  is  a  life  in  which  bright  blossoms  grew, 
Of  faith  and  righteousness.  The  test  was  hard, 
Though  hours  of  pain  bring  e'er  a  rich  reward. 
The  rest  at  last  will  be  for  thee  so  sweet. 
Thy  burden  meekly  laid  at  Jesus'  feet, 
There  '11  be  no  pain  or  woe  in  heaven  we  know, 
In  all  the  countless  years  that  come  and  go, 
Thou  Jlt  measure  then  the  path  which  here  was  trod 
And  know,  though  thorny,  it  led  up  to  God. 


RECOMPENSE. 

JHKOUGrH  many  a  sweet  golden  eventide, 
Profoundly  happy,  I  sat  by  your  side, 
You  were  the  brightest  sunbeam  of  my  day 
"Was  it  a  dream?  or  did  I  hear  you  say, — 
"  Oh,  never  more,  my  dearest,  grieve  or  pine  : 
My  heart,  my  life,  my  hope,  my  soul,  are  thine." 

When  the  vesper  chimed  the  hour  of  prayer ; 
My  pulses  throbbing,  told  me  —  "  he  is  near." 


RECOMPENSE.  123 

And  when  my  form  on  bended  knee  sank  low, 
Our  lives  to  wondrous  oneness  then  would  flow, 
Toward  that  sea  where  time's  swift  rivers  run, 
Their  course  beneath  the  everlasting  sun. 

And  when  the  parting  came,  and  growing  space 
Hid  from  your  eager  eyes  my  form  and  face  ; 
When  your  proud  soul  reel'd  'neath  my  last  sad  words, 
And  all  your  life  was  full  of  broken  chords ; 
And  all  the  light  that  would  have  made  life  blessed, 
Like  vanished  suns  shone  only  in  the  past ;  — 

Then  in  the  darkness  when  your  strength  gave  way, 
And  you  lay  prostrate  through  the  live-long  day ; 
What  were  your  thoughts  throughout  the  solemn 

night, 

When  your  soul  panted  for  the  coming  light  ? 
When  you  felt  life  and  love  were  incomplete, 
Till  you  had  laid  your  world  down  at  my  feet. 

Anon,  "old  Charon  backward  bore  his  boat." 
Time  on  your  heart  a  strange,  sad  lesson  wrote. 
It  was  the  old,  old  contest,  love  and  pride. 
Youth,  beauty,  wealth,  were  on  my  rival's  side. 
Mine  was  a  poor,  plain  face  'mid  fashion's  throng, 
And  then  the  world  heard  not  the  soul  that  sung. 

Yet  it  was  hard  for  you  to  turn  from  hours 
Whose  bliss  and  melody  we  counted  ours. 
From  all  the  glory  of  the  life  we  plan'd ; 
Where  blue  seas  kiss  a  fair  Provencian  strand. 


124  THE   GAY  PALACE. 

And  fate  and  heaven  wooing  us  to  come, 

And  take  the  gift  which  God  had  given  us,  "home." 

"We  might  have  made  life  blest  for  others  there. 
The  soil  of  mind,  when  pure,  great  fruits  may  bear. 
Yet  now  those  visions  mock  me,  and  I  weep, 
To  know  you  guard  her  in  her  peaceful  sleep  — 
Upon  your  heart,  that  fair  young  bride ;  and  oh  ! 
I  long  to  lay  my  head  beneath  the  snow, 

When  from  the  casement  of  my  lonely  room 

I  watch  the  autumn  in  its  sombre  gloom, 

Grow  dark  with  winter  in  the  leaden  sky, 

And  troops  of  browning  leaves  go  flitting  by. 

I  seem  to  kiss  the  sculptur'd  lips  so  strange  — 

And  cold  beneath  the  clinging  snows  of  change. 

My  earth,  my  heaven  was  the  hope  that's  fled ! 

I  mutely  shiver  while  I  bow  my  head. 

Though  faith  has  taught  me  that  the  souls  above  — 

Who  needs  must  love  to  live  —  will  live  to  love. 


THE  GAY  PALACE. 

BEARED  aloft  on  Chestnut  Street, 

Stands  a  palace  fair  and  stately; 
Built  of  marble  —  quite  complete  — 
With  its  splendid  treasures  lately  — 


THE   GAY  PALACE.  125 

Brought  from  Nuremberg  and  Hyda, 
Prague  and  Gottemburg,  Vienna 
And  Berlin  in  costly  manner. 
O'er  the  surging  of  the  water! 
Boundless  stores  of  terra- cotta 
Came :  and  money  has  been  spent 
At  Hanley,  and  Stoke  upon  Trent ; 
And  such  hosts  of  wonders  sent 
E'en  from  Birmingham  and  Breslin, 
Bivalling  a  Turkish  harem. 
For  such  trains  of  ladies  gather 
In  the  cool,  sunshiny  weather, 
Looking  fair  and  bright  as  May, 
In  the  palace  of  the  Gay. 
While  yon  marble  Cupid  strives, 
With  dart  keen  as  Sheffield  knives, 
To  engrave  each  pretty  face 
'On  the  glass-ware  and  the  place, 
Like  the  demoiselles  of  Paris ! 
Whence  were  brought  these  toys  — 
Barest,  dearest  little  shapes  of  magic ; 
And  the  statues  acting  tragic  — 
Scenes  amid  medallion  vases, 
Studded  with  such  antique  faces. 
All  the  splendors  which  we  dream 
Must  a  very  mockery  seem, 
Here  amid  such  dazzling  glories, 
Wonderful  as  fairy  stories, 
Where  bright  crystal  fountains  play, 
As  one  grand  tri-u-nity, 
In  the  temple  of  the  Gay. 
11* 


126  THE  LAST  ROSE-BUD. 


THE  LAST  KOSE-BUD. 

— 

NE  little  frozen  bud  of  all  the  fair, 
Bright,  gentle  sisterhood  that  blossom'd  there 
In  the  home-garden  ;  and  thou  gav'st  it  me, 

With  these  sad  words — "The  last  that  I  may  see. 

For  when  the  glowing  spring-time  comes  again, 

And  all  the  fields  are  rich  with  mellow  grain, 

And  fair  the  roses  which  have  crowned  the  May  — 

I  may  lie  lowly,  as  they  lie  to-day ; 

The  ice  upon  my  heart,  and  form,  and  face  ; 

The  flowers  waving  o'er  my  resting-place." 

Thou,  mother,  who  hast  seen  the  roses  fall, 
Whose  hands  have  culled  the  fairest  of  them  all, 
To  lay  upon  my  table,  there  to  bloom  ; 
Whose  sylph-like  gliding  in  my  lonely  room, 
Brightened  into  cheer  the  sombre  gloom  ; 
Thou,  whose  love,  sweet,  yet  unlike  the  flowers, 
Knows  ne'er  a  fading,  when  the  winter  lowers. 
Thou,  whose  blessed  life  of  chastened  grace 
Shines  through  the  holy  beauty  of  thy  face ; 
Whose  watch  was   ceaseless   through    my  darkling 

night ; 

Thou  couldst  not  die,  and  take  away  the  light 
From  me,  thy  stricken  child  I  it  cannot  be. 
Others  have  slept  that  pale  sleep  silently ; 
Some  are  more  silent,  whc  sleep  not  —  to  me : 


SOMEWHERE.  127 

Whose  voiceless  lives  are  harder  far  to  bear, 
Than  though  1  knew  them  stilly  resting  there. 

And,  oh  !  will  you  too  leave  me,  mother  dear  ? 

My  soul  is  sick  with  agonizing  fear. 

Let  the  flowers  fall,  and  the  chill  winds  blow, 

And  on  earth's  countless  treasures  heap  the  snow;  — 

Let  fire  consume  the  dross,  but  not  my  gold ; 

The  purchase-coin  of  joy  ne'er  bought  or  sold 

With  years  and  time.     Oh  !  let  me  give  to  thee 

All  things  else  dear,  who  gave  life  to  me. 

But  do  not  leave  me,  mother;  when  you  go, 

I  too  must  wither  while  the  chill  winds  blow, 

For  all  life's  roses  will  be  hid  with  snow. 

Better  a  grave  with  thee  in  yon  sweet  spot, 

Than  all  the  desert-world  where  thou  art  not. 


SOMEWHEKE. 

JHOU  art  dying,  poor  old  year ! 
And  around  thy  snow-crowned  bier, 
Spirits  through  the  silent  night, 
Weave  a  shroud  of  meshes  white. 

On  this  pass  of  death  and  birth 
Somewhere  o'er  the  silent  earth, 
One  is  straying,  who  can  know, 
Life  above,  nor  grave  below. 


128  GENIUS. 

In  the  matin-time  somewhere, 
Bows  a  heart  in  voiceless  prayer. 
May  he  come  to  rest  at  last, 
Where  we  trysted  in  the  past. 

Where  the  ages,  too,  lie  dumb, 
Glacier-seaFd  for  the  to-come. 
Dead  for  time  that  they  might  be 
Born  to  God's  infinity. 


GENIUS. 

jO  clothe  life's  chaos  wild  with  beauteous  grace, 
And  through  lost  Edens  of  the  heart  to  trace 
The  soul's  high  majesty  of  recompense ; 
To  lift  the  mind  from  out  the  slough  of  sense, 
And  climb  the  steeps  of  truth  to  palace  fair 
Of  thought  set  on  the  hills  of  God ;  to  bear 
Time's  burdens  up  with  patient  faith,  and  back 
Through  vales  of  storm  to  seek  earth's  hidden  track  : 
This,  Genius,  is  thy  work  —  to  wait  and  keep 
Still  watches  while  the  Lord's  beloved  sleep. 

To  wander,  homeless,  through  a  world  of  homes; 
To  look  with  longing  on  earth's  countless  tombs 
Which  mark  the  way ;  with  hunger  of  the  soul 
To  yearn  for  rest  with  fever  'yond  control 
Drinking  life's  vital  springs ;  in  vain  to  cleave 


GENIUS.  129 

With  heart  of  worship  to  the  forms  that  leave 

Their  clayey  touch  upon  pure  spirit-shrines ; 

To  delve  for  gems  of  worth  in  sordid  mines 

Of  coarse  humanity;  to  trust  in  vain; 

To  love  when  love  brings  naught  save  endless  pain  : 

To  toil  with  laggard  step  and  weary  mien, 

Through  mazy  darks  of  time,  for  light  unseen  ; 

To  sow,  but  never  reap ;  to  weave  a  crown 

From  roses  of  the  heart,  and  wander  down 

The  ages  crownless,  though  another  wear 

In  hope  the  garlands  won  from  thy  despair; 

To  live  alone  in  crowds;  to  die  alone; 

To  faint  and  fall  unwept  —  life's  duty  done : 

This,  Genius,  is  the  doom  fate  metes  thee  here  — 

A  life  despoiled  —  a  solitary  bier  — 

A  rack'd  soul  and  brain  —  a  starved  frame; 

And  on  the  marble  at  thy  head  —  a  name! 

Posterity  thy  heritage  will  claim  at  last, 

"When  thou  shalt  sleep,  forgotten  with  the  past. 

Favored  of  God  —  misunderstood  of  men  — 
To  thy  Creator  clear  'yond  mortal  ken. 
This  for  thyself.     But  what  for  world  and  man 
Hast  thou  wrought  blindly  on  life's  little  span 
Of  days  ? — a  path  of  light  through  mazes  cold 
Mid  Alpine  fastness  or  in  desert  old; 
Hast  brought  to  mind  of  earnest  hope  one  spring 
Of  which  to  quaff  —  new  life  inspir'd  —  to  bring 
Pilgrims  athirst  to  the  pure  fount  of  truth  — 
Of  which  one  drop  to  failing  age  or  youth, 
I 


130  TO  BELLE  F.  C. 

Given  in  faith,  were  given  Him  who  gave 
The  soul's  majestic  power,  life  to  save. 

Many  forget  the  singer,  though  the  song 
Still  lingers,  with  sweet  cadence  borne  along 
The  way,  to  soothe  with  whisperings  of  heaven. 
They  pass  the  teacher  by,  who  purg'd  the  leaven 
From  their  young  minds ;  though  his  pure  lessons  still 
May  live  to  good.  —  words  of  wisdom  will. 

Though  far  from  full  the  measure  of  thy  days, 

Christ's  livery  was  suffering!  thorny  ways 

Through  earth,  a  cross,  and  death  of  shame  and  pain. 

"  Be  that  ye  mete  to  others  thine  again  ; 

And  that  which  ye  receive  shall  make  you  blest 

In  the  bright  vistas  of  infinite  rest,  — 

The  place  prepared  by  Him  who  trod  before 

This  strait  of  time  to  the  great  evermore." 


TO  BELLE  F.  C. 

HAVE  missed  you,  darling,  missed  you, 
In  the  twain  of  years  which  rung 
Their  wild  wail  of  solemn  cadence, 

Down  my  heart's  deep  chords  among. 

In  the  amber-light  of  morning; 

In  the  noon's  broad,  fervid  glow, 

In  the  golden  slant  of  even  ; 


TO   BELLE  F.    C.  131 

In  the  darkness  of  my  woe ; 

In  the  still,  mysterious  midnight! 

When  my  heart  was  breaking  slow, — 

Breaking  for  your  angel-presence  ; 

For  your  kiss  on  lip  and  brow ; 

For  your  soft,  white  arms  about  me,  — 

Darling,  and  I  miss  you  now. 

I  have  loved  you,  darling,  loved  you! 
With  a  love  that  knew  no  blight, 
And  a  trust  that  knew  no  dimness 
In  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
With  a  spirit  leal  to  shield  you ; 
With  a  longing  for  your  touch ; 
With  a  grace  that  held  you  ever, 
In  the  heart  which  suffered  much. 
Loved  you  with  a  hope  though  hopeless, 
With  a  tenderness  of  ruth, 
And  a  love  that  clung  so  truly, 
With  no  recompense  of  truth. 

I  shall  love  you,  darling,  love  you, 

Till  the  years  shall  be  no  more; 

Years  through  which  our  souls  cry  vainly 

For  the  joys  we  knew  before. 

I  shall  miss  you,  darling,  miss  you, 

Miss  your  face  and  your  caress, 

Till  within  time's  distant  Aidenn, 

I  shall  find  you  and  my  rest. 

When  the  days  of  earth  are  ended, 
Days  of  longing,  want,  and  care, 


132  TO 

And  my  soul  goes  home  at  even, 
Through  the  soft,  ethereal  air, 
Up  along  the  starry  stairway 
To  a  palace  bright  and  fair, 
I  shall  know  that  it  is  Heaven, 
Darling,  when  I  greet  you  there. 


TO 


AN  the  fates  say  why  they  could  not  last, 
The  golden  hours  that  have  flown  so  fast 
Since  we  two  met  in  the  recent  past? 

Was  it  just  because  they  were  so  bright, 
Time  glided  by  like  a  fairy  sprite, 
Leaving  no  trace  in  his  trackless  flight? 

But  the  tides  must  cease  their  airy  flow; 

We  shall  miss  thy  face's  genial  glow, 

In  our  coming  spring  when  the  roses  blow. 

When  the  summer  song-bird's  notes  are  heard 
And  boundless  deeps  of  soul  are  stirred 
No  longer  by  thy  pleasant  word. 

When  the  solemn  stars  of  winter  gleam, 
And  the  moon  sends  down  her  silver  beam, 
And  day  lies  locked  in  silent  dream ;  — 


SONNET.  133 

We  '11  muse  of  thee  through  many  an  hour, 

In  the  light  of  memory's  magic  power, 

Till  the  year  has  passed  from  snow  to  flower. 

It  will  come  too  soon — some  early  day  — 
The  farewell  clasp,  the  separate  way, 
And  all  that  has  been  a  memory. 

Yet  some  little  word  of  mine,  I  ween, 
And  the  tear-drops  falling  all  unseen, 
Will  keep  that  memory  fresh  and  green. 

And  when  God's  eternal  morn  shall  blend 

With  a  noon  of  joy  which  has  no  end, 

I  will  hail  thee,  then,  my  soul's  true  friend. 


SONNET. 

JHEBE  is  to-day  a  touch  upon  my  heart ! 
A  tone  within  so  clear,  which  doth  impart 
Unto  my  weary  soul  the  grace  of  rest, 
My  spirit,  mother,  seeks  the  parent  nest: 
Its  wings  are  flagging  in  the  outward  reach 
Of  thought  —  far  lying  'yond  the  range  of  speech; 
All  space  is  compassed  by  the  shining  beam 
Of  thy  sweet  love ;  and  doth  thy  goodness  seem. 
More  prized  by  me  than  richest  treasure  won 
By  mental  toil,  or  noblest  duty  done. 
12 


134  BINGEN   ON  THE  RHINE. 

O  mother,  dearest !  take  my  loyal  heart ; 
It  is  thine  own,  the  purer,  better  part 
Of  what  I  have  to  give.     On  sacred  shrine 
Of  love  and  home  I  lay  it,  mother  mine ! 


ON  THE  EHINE." 


i 

'T  was  a  simple,  uncouth,  soiled  print;    * 
A  lithograph  of  ancient  style  —  and  bent 
Around  a  circling  board  so  carelessly, 
Damp  with  the  drizzle  of  the  humid  day. 
One  poor  old  German,  who  had  turned  back 
From  his  long  gazing  on  the  seaward  track, 
That  snow-reefed  passway  to  the  faderland, 
Paused,  drew  across  his  eyes  a  toil-worn  hand  ; 
Then  bent  them  in  a  sad  and  rigid  stare, 
Upon  the  simple  picture  hanging  there. 

He  car'd  not  though  the  tides  should  ebb  and  flow, 
And  busy  boatmen  to  their  homes  did  go, 
E'en  while  the  tramp  of  many  thousand  feet 
Waxed  faint  and  fainter  in  the  twilight  street. 
Severed  there  from  kith  of  humankind, 
With  many  a  sad  thought  rankling  in  his  mind  ; 
Swaying  the  poor  old  clay  with  mighty  swell  ; 
For  Bingen  on  the  Rhine,  the  tear-drops  fell. 


B ING  EN   ON  THE  RHINE.  135 

The  tides  surged  slowly  backward  o'er  the  past, 
To  Bingen  on  the  Rhine,  as  seen  at  last, 
By  this  poor  exile  from  his  land  afar, 
Borne  thence  by  poverty  and  luckless  war, 
To  seek  a  clime  of  peace  and  work !  —  but  now, 
Crushed  by  life's  sorry  ills,  he  bent  his  brow, 
And  trembling  like  the  rolling  sea  he  crossed, 
Again  wept  for  the  Bingen  he  had  lost ; 
While  the  chill-blankness  of  a  mute  despair, 
Closed  with  the  hazy  night  around  him  there. 

Anon,  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  street ! 
A  watchman  slowly  paced  his  lonely  beat, 
Until  the  steeple-clock  told  twelve  —  and  then 
The  officer  addressed  him  :  "Ho !  my  friend, 
'Tis  time  you  sought  your  quarters  for  the  night." 
How  the  touch  startled  him! — the  old  man's  sight 
"Was  surely  failing ;  wife  and  children  all, 
Were  clustered  round  him  ;  the  stranger's  call, 
Had  rent  again  the  dear,  long-severed  band, 
Dispelled  the  dream  of  home  and  faderland. 

Slowly  he  moved  away;  while  each  fell  stroke, 
Which  echoed  through  the  night,  some  fetter  broke 
That  bound  him  to  the  happy  past.     Awhile 
He  toiled  the  days  through,  with  a  patient  smile 
Curving  the  poor,  pale  lips ;  God  knew  that  he 
Sought  Bingen  "in  the  better  counterie." 


136  KINDRED   GRAVES. 


KINDEED  GEAYES. 


of  autumn,  touch  them  gently  ! 
Snows  of  winter,  very  lightly! 

"Wrap  those  mounds  afar, 
Through  the  world  in  all  her  roaming  — 
Finds  that  friend  in  sorrow's  gloaming, 

Nothing  half  so  fair  — 
As  the  pure  heart-blossoms  faded, 
When  she  left  them  meekly  sleeping  — 
Her  loved  ones  there. 

Spring's  bright  roses  twice  have  blossom'd, 
Since  she  saw  upon  her  bosom  — 

Bertie  fade  away  ; 
When  she  laid  him  wildly  weeping 
In  the  chilly  gloom  of  winter  — 

On  a  solemn  day. 
Laid  him  gently  with  the  rarest 
Halo  on  his  face's  fairness 

In  the  frozen  clay. 

By  a  tomb  where  dewy  showers 
Gemmed  the  grass  in  summer  hours, 

On  the  vale  below; 
Birds  sang  matins  in  the  wildwood, 
Orphan  voices  wept  in  childhood, 

For  another  woe  : 


KINDRED    GRAVES.  137 

While  the  solemn  stars  were  sleeping, 
Like  the  mother  gone  to  heaven  — 
Very  long  ago. 

And  a  grave  yet  wider  —  deeper; 
Of  another  silent  sleeper  — 

Besting  all  alone. 
Ever  brave  and  nothing  fearing, 
Turn'd  to  God  for  patient  hearing, 

When  the  strife  was  done ; 
With  a  faith  that  never  faltered 
In  the  mad,  victorious  conflict  — 

Till  the  end  was  won. 

"Cannons'  roar"  and  "muskets'  rattle," 
"Or the  din  of  distant  battle," 

Ne'er  can  reach  him  more. 
Every  sound  of  hoping,  fearing, 
Fainter  grew  as  he  was  nearing 

The  eternal  shore ! 
Voice  of  mother,  child,  nor  brother 
Cometh  like  the  sun  to  cheer  her, 

Never  any  more. 
12* 


138  REDEEMED  BY  LOVE. 


EEDEEMED  BY  LOVE. 

'OTHEE,  come  and  sit  beside  me; 

Do  not  fear  to  touch  me  now, 
For  the  mocking  phantoms  leave  me 
When  your  hand  is  on  my  brow. 
All  the  madness  surging  o'er  me 

Quails  before  that  look  of  thine, 
And  the  flush  of  wine  and  fever 
Pales  as  moans  the  soughing  wind. 

Mother,  all  will  soon  be  over ! 

I  am  nearing  yonder  strand 
Where  your  voice  may  not  recall  me, 

Nor  the  clinging  of  your  hand. 
Wasted  years  I  have  rehearsed  — 

Eeckless,  squandered  with  a  will  — 
Bought,  this-  doom  of  the  accursed, 

From  the  demon  of  the  still. 

But  the  time  has  come,  dear  mother  — 

I  have  bartered  life  for  this  ! 
Hell  is  yawning !     Press  another 

On  my  lips  — just  one,  last  kiss. 
It  will  still  the  serpent-hisses 

That  are  sounding  in  my  soul. 
Who  could  dream  such  things  were  lurking 

'Neath  the  sparkle  of  the  bowl  ? 


R  EDEEMED  BY  LOVE.  139 

Clasp  me  in  your  arms,  dear  mother, 

From  those  glaring  demons  there. 
Don't  you  see  their  eyeballs  glitter 

Through  the  glamour  of  the  air? 
And  upon  the  coming  dawn-time 

There  's  a  brand  of  lurid  gloom  — 
Burning,  flaming  like  the  taper  — 

Which  will  light  me  to  the  tomb. 

Oh,  I  might  have  stayed  beside  you ! 

Yet  1  left  for  fiends  like  these ! 
Would  to  God  that  I  might  keep  you ! 

You  my  only  hope  of  peace. 
I  have  been  a  blight  upon  you, 

And  a  scourge,  for  all  your  care. 
Mother,  oh  !  can  you  forgive  me  ? 

It  will  lighten  my  despair. 

I  am  going,  mother.     Kiss  me, 

As  you  used  to  long  ago, 
Ere  I  changed  your  angel  presence 

For  the  haunts  of  crime  and  woe  ;  — 
Though  I  ne'er  forgot  you,  mother  — 

Never,  amid  mirth  or  pain, 
It  was  that  which  broke  my  fetters  — 

Brought  me  to  your  side  again. 

Oh,  I  am  so  happy,  mother! 

All  my  woe  has  changed  to  bliss, 
Since  I  summon'd  strength  to  see  you  — 

Strength  of  love  to  tell  you  this ; 


MO  REDEEMED   BY  LOVE. 

And  have  felt  your  arms  about  me  — 
Your  warm  kiss  on  cheek  and  brow. 

You  have  blessed  me  —  God  forgive  me  ! 
Mother,  I  can  leave  you  now. 

Meekly,  in  the  calm  of  morning, 

Low  upon  her  bended  knee, 
Sank  the  mother — light  adorning 

Her  angelic  brow.     And  see, 
Close  beside  him  still  she  lingers, 

With  the  loved  and  erring  dead, 
Pressing  yet  the  rigid  fingers  — 

Thinking  of  the  words  he  said. 

Thinking  how  upon  her  bosom, 

Years  ago  she  blessed  him  there; 
Then  a  little  fairy  prattler, 

Climbing  on  his  mother's  chair. 
He  had  loved  her,  oh  !  how  dearly ! 

Was  it  strange  she  could  not  blame  — 
Only  pity  him,  thus  early 

Passed  beyond  his  grief  and  shame? 

Then  she  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  ! 

Glowing  on  the  waxen  face, 
There  she  saw  the  Master's  signet, 

Of  his  blest  redeeming  grace. 
The  same  love  which  drew  him  to  her, 

When  the  tempter  pressed  him  sore, 
Led  him  very  near  to  heaven, 

Ne'er  to  wander  &ny  more. 


TO   E   L.  S.  141 

Christ,  the  God  of  the  transgressor ! 

How  her  heart  gave  thanks  to  him, 
Who  had  laid  her  idol  shattered 

In  the  silence,  cold  and  grim. 
Though  his  life  was  lost  in  folly, 

Death  had  hidden  in  the  bowl, 
This  one  amulet  of  pardon, 

To  redeem  his  wayward  soul. 


TO  E.  L.  S. 

HEBE  are  mist  and  shadow  on  the  way! 
Where  the  morning  broke  so  still  and  gray; 
And  sky-lines  merged  in  ocean-spray. 

And  life-tides  rolling  dark  and  high ; 
Stifling  the  tones  of  thy  sad  heart-cry, 
Hiding  heaven  from  thy  tearful  eye. 

Thy  noontide  joy  has  changed  to  gloom ! 
The  world  once  filled  with  light  and  bloom, 
Holds  darkness  and  a  mother's  tomb. 

We  heard  the  chime  of  the  boatman's  oar, 
Touching  the  sands  on  the  golden  shore, 
With  its  lighthouse  gleaming  evermore. 

On  the  bright  track  o'er  which  she  passed, 
When  her  frail  earth-bark  was  strandward  cast, 
A  steady  glory  streamed  at  last, 


142  THE  BROWN  HAND. 

Over  the  snow  of  its  pure  white  sails; 
Fanned  by  breath  of  a  thousand  gales ; 
As  the  sinking  sun  o'er  twilight  trails. 

Yet  live  this  thought  in  thy  heart  so  true, 
Bowed  o'er  that  grave  where  the  sod  is  new, 
While  the  cold  stars  glimmer  faint  and  few  : 

And  the  spring-winds  whisper,  "  she  is  gone  !" 
O  friend  of  mine,  grief-scourged  and  lone, 
Though  strong  of  soul  in  thy  trial  grown, 

Let  visions  oft  in  the  silent  night, 
.Reveal  with  forms  in  their  robes  of  white, 
Thine  angel  wearing  her  crown  of  light. 


THE  BROWN  HAND. 

ENTLY  it  lies,  like  a  crisp  leaf, 

Upon  my  child's  bright  hair  — 
Protection  from  each  clinging  grief  - 
A  shield  from  every  care. 

Ah  me  !  it  seems  a  little  while 

Since  on  her  orphan-life 
A  cruel  blow  of  blight  and  guile 

Beat  cold  and  hard  their  strife  — 


THE  BROWN  HAND.  143 

Upon  her  heart  and  mine,  ere  we 

Prom  out  the  world's  dark  ways 
Found  refuge  'neath  the  old  roof-tree, 

As  in  the  childhood  days. 

Where,  years  agone,  upon  my  head 

The  same  brown  hand  was  prest, 
That  father-face  bent  o'er  my  bed  — 

Soothed  then  his  child  to  rest  — 

Now  cradles  mine  with  tender  name  — 

Love  in  his  soft  brown  eyes. 
No  time  can  ever  dim  the  flame 

Where  home-peace,  brooding,  lies. 

Oh !  with  that  dear  toil-brown'd  hand 

To  guide  us  and  to  bless, 
Through  sun-bright  ways  to  God's  far  land, 

We  're  borne  by  his  caress : 

And  should  the  brown  hand  palsied  lie  — 

The  words  from  his  dear  lips 
E'er  cease  to  flow — the  gentle  eye 

Grow  dark  in  death's  eclipse, — 

We  pray  that  strength  to  bear  the  blow 

Would  unto  us  be  given, 
And  faith  to  seek  through  life's  drear  woe 

Our  father  dear  in  heaven. 


144  JUSTICE. 


JUSTICE. 

A    SONNET. 

|HOU  potent  spirit  of  the  good  and  true, 

Thine  is  no  craven,  coward  heart  of  fear; 
Thine  no  blanch'd  face  or  soul  where  falsehood 

grew, 

To  smirk  at  truth,  and  traitor-shape  to  wear. 
Thy  hand  will  not  fan  envy's  secret  fires; 

Thy  heart  will  hold  no  malice,  strife,  or  hate, 
Nor  lips  will  echo  back  the  scourge  of  liars, 

Or  ready  brain  for  time's  defences  wait ; 
Nor  with  thy  silence  prate  when  hope  expires,  , 

When  one  small  word  might  turn  the  scale  of  fate. 
Thine  is  no  voice  to  lead  astray  the  blind, 

Or  deal  the  husks  of  swine  to  striving  worth. 
Thine  is  a  soul  of  ruth  for  human-kind  — 
A  lever  by  which  man  may  move  the  earth. 


TO  MY  FRIEND  C.  D.  P.  145 


C.  D.  P.,  OF   WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 
I 

i|HERE  'S  a  spirit  most  divine 
In  the  manliness  of  thine, 
And  a  goodness  pure  and  true 
Where  thy  soul  its  blossoms  grew ;  — 
Recompense  of  word  and  deed, 
Toward  humanity  the  meed 
Of  thy  charity  awarding;  — 
Every  toil  and  pain  recording, 
In  the  pity  of  thy  heart, 
Feeling  of  their  wrongs  a  part, 
And  a  wish  to  bear  their  burden 
To  yon  still,  far-lying  guerdon, 
O'er  the  deserts  of  the  way, 
To  the  dawn  of  calmer  day, 
When  life's  warfare  shall  be  ended, 
Purpose  and  fulfilment  blended. 

Oh  !  if  words  and  wishes  brought 
E'er  for  thee  the  boon  I  sought, 
Then  life's  fate  would  ne'er  dissever, 
E'er  for  thee  or  thine  forever, 
One  bright  link  in  all  the  chain 
Of  thy -heart-life.  —  woe  nor  pain 
With  their  blighting  force  descend 
On  the  path  of  wife  or  friend. 
13  K 


146  "NEVER  AGAIN." 

Joy  be  thine  in  years  to  come, 
Here  or  in  thy  future  home  — 
When  the  shadows  of  time's  even 
Melt  into  the  light  of  heaven. 


"NEVER  AGAIN.". 

HOSE  dirge-like  words  to  the  slow  heart-beat 
Of  years  ring  out!  and  the  sunder'd  chain 
Which  bound  his  life  in  its  far  retreat, 
Circles  our  souls  with  a  wordless  pain 
And  shuddering  chill.     Ah  me!  to  greet 
The  far-off  dead  in  his  winding-sheet, 
"Never  again." 

In  a  hallow'd  place,  so  still  and  cold, 
They  made  thy  grave  in  the  frozen  mould: 
With  rigid  hands  that  were  idle  near, 
While  he  could  work  for  his  dear  ones  here, 
Over  the  passionless  bosom  pressed  ; 
They  left  him  there,  in  his  dreamless  rest ; 
In  the  boundless  spring  which  blooms  afar, 
Where  the  nights  of  death  their  glory  mar  — 
"Never  again." 

Never  aeain  will  the  broken  band, 

O  ' 

Be  reunited  until  we  stand 
With  those  we  love  in  the  better  land, 
Round  the  great  white  throne  !    What  joy  to  greet 
Them  yonder  —  whom  in  this  world  we  '11  meet  — 
"Never  again." 


THE  TABLET. 


THE  TABLET. 

LITTLE  tablet  pure-and  white, 
To  mark  a  day  so  sweetly  bright, 
With  sunshine  of  a  by-gone  time ; 
Whose  summers,  with  their  golden  chime, 
Rung  through  its  n^stic-winged  hours ; 
Fraught  with  perfumes  of  rich  flowers, 
And  music  rare  of  human  tones  — 
Whose  spell  my  soul  in  secret  owns: 
And  kindly  words  that  long  will  dwell 
Within  my  being's  inmost  cell. 
The  earnest  clasp  of  severed  hands; 
A  linking  firm  of  golden  bands  — 
To  form  a  chain  of  wondrous  grace, 
With  which  to  circle  time  and  space. 
A  breathing  of  some  treasured  things ! 
The  compensation  friendship  brings  ; 
Whose  soul  is  truth  and  honor  blent, — 
Whose  life  was  from  the  Father  sent. 

It  is  of  these  my  tablet  tells, 
Sweet  tones  like  memory's  silver  bells  — 
Chime  through  the  silence  of  my  heart; 
Their  melody  will  ne'er  depart. 
And  charmed  by  the  sweet  refrain, 
I  plant  it  on  earth's  brightest  plain  ; 
To  lift  its  spire  to  heaven,  and  be 
An  "  in  memoriam  "  of  thee. 


148  "SUMMER    GONE." 


"SUMMER  GONE." 


IN    MEMORY   OF    MRS.    H.    A.    W. 


last  summei''s  skies  were  fair, 
And  its  roses  blooming  bright, 
Fell  sweet  incense-laden  air, 
Morning  gleams  of  Eden  light, 
Eound  her  form  a  joyous  bride  ; 

Trusting  whom  her  love  had  won. 
Winter  came  !  orange-flowers 
Faded  in  the  "  summer  gone." 

In  the  clammy,  frozen  clay, 

Stranger  hands  have  made  her  tomb  ; 
Chill  winds  mournfully  to-day 

Chant  a  dirge  for  blighted  bloom  — 
Broken  hopes  :  —  a  stricken  form 

Walks  a  life-path  sad  and  lone, 
Through  its  tempest  and  its  storm, 

Dreaming  of  his  "summer  gone." 

Oh,  the  chill  and  sunless  day! 

Summer-wreaths  lie  faded  now  : 
She  is  sleeping,  blighted  May, 

With  a  chaplet  on  her  brow. 
Joy's  bright  way  is  steeped  with  tears. 

Crossing  o'er  the  night  to  morn  ! 
In  God's  record  of  our  years 

We  shall  find  the  "summer  gone." 


"JOHN  HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN."         149 


"JOHN  HALIFAX,  GENTLEMAN." 

LAD  of  humble  birth,  and  poor  was  he, 

With  soul  of  loftier  nobility 

Than  kings  and  princes  boast!    A  gentleman, 
Whose  noble  pride  made  e'er  his  bearing  grand. 
He  loved  a  lady  who  had  mines  of  gold, 
A  spirit  high,  a  form  of  lovely  mould. 
Almost  divine,  and  madly  worshipped  so, 
Could  not  give  back  his  jewels-like?  oh,  no! 
She  was  so  beauteous,  too,  he  could  not  dare 
To  hope  that  she  would  listen  to  his  prayer, 
Or  come  to  love  the  humble  tanner's  lad, 
In  station  far  below  ;  yet  she  was  glad 
To  have  the  strong  man  for  her  friend  when  he 
And  she,  and  death,  were  guests  at  Enderly. 
Her  heart  looked  up  to  him  that  bitter  hour, 
As  to  a  strong,  strong  stay  whose  potent  power 
Was  all-sufficient. 

Soon,  the  parting  o'er ; 
Cruel  it  was  — he  saw  the  social  door 
Closed  by  the  hand  of  wealth  and  power, 
And  cursed  his  destiny  that  bitter  hour. 
With  strange  intent  upon  his  face  so  wan, 
lie  rose  him  up,  a  hopeless,  broken  man, 
All  faint  and  heart-sore  like  a  homeless  child. 
The  burning  fever  in  his  veins  grew  wild, 
Sapping  life's  current  from  his  athlete  frame, 
13* 


150        "JOHN  HALIFAX,    GENTLEMAN." 

While  striving  for  the  rest  which  never  came  ; 

Resolved  to  go  away  across  the  sea, 

And  try  to  bear  his  burden  patiently ; 

To  seek  a  respite  which  he  could  not  find, 

From  the  great  grief  which  preyed  upon  his  mind. 

Phineas  sought  Ursula,  with  the  bold  intent, 
To  tell  her  he  should  go,  and  why  he  went. 
He  found  her  sitting  with  the  sunbeams  round 
Wrapped  in  their  golden  tissue.     As  the  sound 
Of  his  impatient  feet  broke  on  the  day, 
She,  rising,  blushed,  scarce  knowing  what  to  say  — 
When,  with  a  faltering  tongue,  outspoke  the  friend  — 
To  her  whom  "  David  loved  !"  yet  M-ho  could  send 
Him  by  her  coldness  all  that  gloomy  way, 
Without  one  look  or  tone  to  bid  him  stay. 

Away  went  Phineas ;  for  he  feared  the  smart 
Of  her  apparent  coldness.     Woman's  heart! 
What  worldless  man  can  read?     When  he  was  gone, 
She  sat,  the  fair  head  bowed  her  hands  upon  ; 
Then  she  rose  up,  and  found  a  swift,  sure  way 
To  his  dear  side.     The  woman  in  her  spoke 
Strong  words  that  cleft  the  ice  !  each  daring  stroke 
Some  vestige  of  the  faded  fetters  broke. 

"And  you  did  love  him  ?"  said  his  friend,  in  glee. 
"John  knows,"  she  answered  him,  "and  he  will  stay.' 
And  there  was  given  them  a  life-long  love, 
Of  usefulness  on  earth  —  and  rest  above. 


"MY   TEARS   GO  ON"  151 


"  MY  YEAES  GO  ON." 

TINY  span  they  seem  —  not  many  gone. 

A  merry  child,  to  whom  the  world  was  new, 
I  made  my  playhouse  on  yon  sloping  lawn, — 
The  sward  my  carpet. — 'neath  the  blighted  yew. 
The  place  has  lost  its  fresh,,  bright  look  of  yore  ; 

The  old  yew  shivers  in  the  wind ;  anon 
A  blight  will  grow  upon  the  glory  wore 
By  these  mute  faces  as  "my  years  go  on." 

I'm  thinking  of  the  broken  household-band  — 

The  three  remaining,  and  the  one  asleep, 
The  faded  daisies  and  the  falling  sand, 

The  patient,  willing  eyes  love-taught  to  weep ; 
The  mansion  in  my  heart  with  shapes  of  trust: 

All,  as  the  morning  radiant;  one  by  one 
They  crumbled  !     Now,  alas!  the  clinging  dust 

Lies  on  their  fairness,  though  "  my  years  go  on." 

While  I  a  wanderer  o'er  the  earth's  broad  track  — 

Lonely  amid  these  early  scenes  —  yet  stay, 
As  some  weird  pilgrim  who  has  turned  back 

From  the  cold  mazes  of  a  weary  way, 
Feeling  within  my  heart  a  hungry  pain  — 

A  longing  never  still  beneath  the  sun, — 
I  try  to  rest  me  in  the  shade  again, 

Yet  only  shiver  "  while  my  years  go  on." 


152  "MY   YEARS   GO    ON. 

Ah  me!  a  far,  blue  track  appears  again, — 

A  long  way  off  it  seems,  this  dreary  day. 
Memory  thrills  me  with  a  touch  of  pain, 

The  landmarks  are  so  changed  along  life's  way. 
Once  more  they  greet  me — the  bright  shapes  and  fair, 

Whose  destiny  was  heaven  early  won. 
For  them  the  spring  no  pallid  masks  can  wear,  — 

No  worn,  white  faces  as  "my  years  go  on." 

A  hallowed  brightness  o'er  pale  beauty  cast  — 

A  shining  peace  upon  each  waiting  face, 
As  of  tired  wanderers  safe  at  last  — 

At  rest  within  the  fold,  through  Jesus'  grace. 
It  was  so  hard  to  give  them  up !  —  to  roam 

The  life- way,  missing  them!  —  stricken  alone 
To  thread  the  spaces  in  my  heart,  and  come 

To  do  without  them  as  "  my  years  go  on  !  " 

Yet,  oh !  in  days  to  come,  when  ages  bow 

Before  the  great  I  AM  of  future  time, — 
Who  wears  the  morning's  signet  on  his  brow, 

And  holds  the  destinies  of  every  clime. — 
I  will  not  count  life  by  this  little  span  — 

These  wasted  hopes  and  dreams  that  leave  me  lone; 
For  broken  shapes  of  earth  stand  clear  and  grand 

In  the  forever,  as  God's  "years  go  on." 


ROSA.  153 


ROSA. 


with  its  mazy  pleasure 
Shrouds  thee  now. 
There  's  a  glory-passing  measure 

On  thy  brow  ; 

And  thy  heart  enshrineth  treasure, 
Pure,  I  trow,  — 

As  the  radiance  gleaming  ever 

O'er  life's  morn  ; 
Barred  as  by  hope's  golden  lever, 

To  adorn 
Earth  with  light  of  the  forever 

Heaven-born. 

Time  is  wide  —  its  ways  are  weary! 

May  thy  feet 
Safely  cross  its  deserts  dreary  : 

Thy  heart  beat, 
To  life's  solemn  cadence  —  cheery 

Music  sweet. 

With  its  halo  resting  lightly 

On  thy  brow, 
To  thy  love-star  shining  brightly 

Lowly  bow, 
Asking  God  to  keep  thee  —  nightly, 

Pure  as  now. 


SHADOWED  LIGHT." 


"SHADOWED  LIGHT." 

(       HEKE  arc  words  that  burn  deep  on  the  bar- 

renest  brain  ; 
There  are  torches  aflame  on  love's  altars  of 

pain; 
There  are  tones  like  the  chant  of  the  stars  at  their 

birth  ; 

There  are  faces  like  light  'mid  the  chaos  of  earth  ; 
There  are  matins  of  morn  and  vespers  of  even  — 
Confusing  the  world  with  the  splendor  of  heaven. 

There  are  links  frail  as  withes  of  the  glittering  sand; 
There  are  vows  "  writ  in  water,"  and  wrecks  on  the 

land; 
There  are  storms  'neath  the  calms  of  the  cavernous 

deeps — 

In  limitless  darks  where  the  sea-coral  sleeps ; 
There  are  souls  that  must  sing  and  hearts  that  will 

cling  — 
Though  death  be  the  portion  their  loyalty  bring. 

One  short  year  agone,  when  the  season  was  new  — 
Bright  May  'neath  the  sky  and  the  sun  in  its  blue, 
And  flowers  lifted  up  their  pale  lips  in  the  noon, 
Borne  down  by  the  breath  of  the  desert  simoon, 
While  drinking  the  crystal  whose  roseate  rise 
Was  quenched  by  the  flame  in  his  luminous  eyes. 


"SHADOWED  LIGHT:'  155 

Yet  he  kissed  the  white  petals  with  passionate  lips, 
Till  their  fragrance  was  by  his  great  glory  eclipsed; 
Then  left  them  to  die  in  the  glare  of  the  day, 
Where  the  wind  and  the  wave  at  their  work  seein'd 

to  play, 

"While  darkness  came  down,  and  the  pitiless  sun, 
Who  cared  not  to  keep  what  his  luminance  won, 
Went  back  to  his  course  through  the  anemone  blue, 
As  if  love  were  a  falsehood,  and  God  were  not  true. 

Now  I  sit  in  the  glow  of  the  Protean  spring! 
My  thoughts  flitting  gayly  as  birds  on  the  wing, 
And  my  heart  with  the  past  and  the  present  at  play, 
With  flowers  at  the  feet  of  the  laureate  May. 
A  glory  comes  o'er  me  —  the  sun  of  my  dream, 
With  eyes  like  his  splendor  and  soul  like  his  beam ; 
While  the  earth  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven  above, 
All  glow  with  the  dream  of  immaculate  love. 

But  the  vision  goes  out !  and  I  pray  while  I  weep 

For  the  quiet  and  peace  of  that  passionless  sleep, 

'Neath  flowers  on  the  plains  of  summers  to  be 

In  the  emerald  reach  of  eternity  — 

Where  the  "light  in  the  dust"  will  never  lie  dead, 

Though  I  rest  with  a  stone  at  my  feet  and  my  head. 


156  AUGUSTINE. 


AUGUSTINE. 

O  more,  oblivious  of  time  or  place, 

To  hoard  a  waiting  blessing  on  thy  lips : 
But  cross  thy  heart,  above  a  loved  face, 
And  bow  thine  head  as  'neath  the  sun's  eclipse  ! 
To  wait  the  morning-light,  and  seek  to  trace 
Christ  in  the  dumb  pain  thy  trial  has  been. 
A  strange  and  wayward  destiny  is  thine, 
A  mystery  sad,  of  anguish,  Augustine. 

Men  look  upon  thy  face  so  stern  and  pale, 

Nor  see  beneath  thy  proud  and  careless  mien  — 
A  life  despoiled  for  aye,  nor  catch  thy  wail 

Of  spirit  o'er  wrecked  worlds  !     The  sunset  sheen 
Upon  death's  gathering  ice,  the  whited  sail 

Adrift  like  snow-flake  on  a  sea  of  green, 
And  clinging  myrtle  over  graves  a  trail, 

Are  as  thy  broken  love-dream,  Augustine. 

Crushed  May-time  flowers  on  life's  autumn  beat, 

Of  duty's  sentry-guard  o'er  soul  of  man.  — 
'Mid  lingering  fragrance  of  pale  roses  sweet. 

Left  far  behind  thee  in  the  shrivelled  span  — 
Thy  years  have  grown  to  be  :  no  more  to  meet 

That  soul's  reproachful  gaze  beneath  the  ban 
And  curse  that  withers  thee.     Time  is  too  fleet 

In  which  to  live  thy  soul's  life,  Augustine. 


AUGUSTINE.  157 

A  glorious  life  of  rapture,  which  was  planned 

Where  tropic  skies  bend  low,  and  azure  seas 
Amoaning  kiss  a  fair  Provencian  strand, 

And  Eden  fragrance  fills  the  summer  breeze. 
Oh  !  wreck  of  wasted  strength  and  ruin  grand, 

And  desolating  scourge  of  templed  ease, 
And  world's  dread  minion,  care,  whose  mighty  hand 

Hast  broken  altars  of  thy  spirit,  Augustine. 

The  soil  of  mind,  when  pure,  great  fruits  may  grow  ! 

Though  not  on  plains  where  dead-sea  deserts  lie: — 
On  which  thy  palsied  heart  is  stricken  low, 

Beneath  the  glacier-gleam  of  life  gone  by. 
Behold  thine  autumn  in  its  sombre  glow, 

Grow  pale  with  winter  in  the  sunset  sheen  ! 
Of  Memory's  crown  upon  a  brow  of  snow  : 

And  speak  a  long,  long  farewell,  Augustine. 

Life's  sacrificial  draughts  the  spirit  purge, 
And  dead-sea  fruits  enrich  the  deathless  soul. 

Above  thy  years  let  blood-stained  billows  surge, 
Till  spirit-robes  are  white  and  life  made  whole; 

The  life  whose  clinging  curse  and  final-  scourge 
Was  man's  "too  late"  upon  death's  open  scroll. 

The  soul's  eternal  loves  immutable  are  thine, 
God  and  his  everlasting  ages,  Augustine. 


158  THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 


THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

VEK  the  bridge  which  the  angels  crost, 
T  \3$P  ^n^  UP  through  the  shining  gates  of  pearl, 

pass'(i  the  souls  of  our  loved  and  lost 
Through  crystal  doors  of  the  silent  world. 

High  in  heaven,  where  the  angels  chant 
Sweet  songs  of  love  to  the  Saviour-king, 

Mingling  their  notes  with  those  who  went 
To  join  the  saints  in  their  worshipping. 

Foster  and  Freddie  are  'mid  the  throng, 
With  radiant  brows  and  robes  of  white, 

The  brightest  spirits  of  earth  among 
The  children-choir  in  the  realm  of  light. 


FINALE. 


159 


FINALE. 


fate's  night  so  cold  and  dark 
h|*ti%>  Two  souls  drifting  from  God's  arc  — 

Over  separate  waves  were  borne, 
In  the  dimness  of  the  morn. 

'Neath  the  noon's  broad,  glowing  sun, 
Two  were  mingled  into  one. 


In  the  golden  slant  of  even  — 
Came  the  twain,  one  soul,  to  Heaven. 


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THE  VOICE  IN  SINGING. 

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U-  S.  CHRISTIAN  COMMISSION. 

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